


Kronos

by nessatheresa12121



Category: Incredibles (Pixar Movies)
Genre: F/M, Prequel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:01:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 48,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22141453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nessatheresa12121/pseuds/nessatheresa12121
Summary: The story of the Glory Days supers, and how Mirage and Syndrome lured, trapped, and killed them all.
Relationships: Mirage/Buddy "Syndrome" Pine
Comments: 5
Kudos: 29





	1. I: Principios

She knew his real name, but Buddy Pine asked Mirage to call him Syndrome.

She was one of the only ones who did, because she was one of the only employees on Nomanisan Island who was “on his level,” as he liked to put it. The rest were little more than glorified servants or henchmen, and they all called him “boss” or “sir.” He liked it that way.

If any one of them had called him “Buddy,” Mirage imagined he would have ripped their throats out right there.

When she first joined Syndrome’s corporation and instantly became one of his most trusted colleagues, the technology maven had not yet put his master plan—Operation Kronos—into effect. But he was just about ready to do so, and when he did, Mirage was there. Initially, when she’d joined Syndrome Enterprises, she knew the operation was not quite on the level—why else hire someone like _her?_ A freelance “Renaissance woman” who had previously worked as a special agent for several agencies and who boasted a fine array of skills and talents, including stalking, sharpshooting and murder? And in addition to that, she knew that Syndrome was an arms dealer, and while on the surface Syndrome Enterprises supposedly dealt in high-tech transportation, Mirage was fully aware that this supposed tech company was just a thinly-veiled front for providing weaponry to whatever foreign government could pay the most. So no, this company was not “on the level.” Not even close.

As an aside: while it mostly operated with impunity, Syndrome Enterprises had been the subject of two brief investigations by the FBI. The second one was narrowly averted by Mirage not two weeks after she was hired by Syndrome. She kindly greeted and ably charmed the four agents who arrived at the island, deftly convincing them within forty-eight hours that there was nothing untoward happening on Nomanisan. She sent them packing with full bellies and smiles on their faces, and after she was done, Syndrome told her with a smirk, “You know something, sweetheart? I might just have to keep you around.”

And he did.

In any case. Syndrome Enterprises was a shady organization, and Mirage was aware of this from the start. But, a month after she was hired to serve as his personal assistant, Syndrome introduced her to his plans for Operation Kronos. And Mirage realized that this was no simple case of a morally-bankrupt arms dealer who didn’t care who got hold of his weapons. This was something more, something worse.

Something potentially more lucrative than _any_ other operation she’d been involved with. Ever. And that was all that mattered in her books.

Her boss spread his blueprints for a giant cylindrical robot out on a special table in a dark room; the table’s entire surface glowed blue, lighting the paper up from underneath. They were alone, and his elbow was pressing into her side. He didn’t seem to notice. He was eager and giddy like a child, occasionally glancing up at Mirage as if trying to win her approval. She’d never seen her boss so happy and excited.

“…and when I’ve lured the supers here, they won’t suspect a damn thing. It’ll be a real party, Mirage. One by one we’ll kill ‘em off, and with every death, the robot will grow stronger, learn from its mistakes. Isn’t that genius? I mean, not trying to brag, but…”

“It’s genius,” Mirage repeated, staring down at the blueprints below her with arms folded tightly. She meant it.

He smoothed his hair back. This was back before Syndrome grew out his hair and started styling it upwards like a puffy lick of flame. Back then, her boss had cropped hair, a short shock of unruly red. “Glad to hear you think so. Otherwise I’d have to fire you.”

She didn’t think he was kidding. “Fire me now, and I’ll tell the whole world about this insane suicide mission,” she purred. It was a joke, an attempt at flirting. In the past, Mirage had found that flirtation was her greatest weapon.

Syndrome chuckled. “Sweetheart, if I fired you now, after showing you this baby?” His white-gloved hand slapped the blueprint. “It wouldn’t entail just handing you a pink slip. Can’t have you spilling my secrets. I’d probably make you the Omnidroid’s first target.” He leaned in closer to her. She could smell mint on his breath, masking the pungent scent of cigarettes underneath. “How much fun would _that_ be?”

Mirage blinked slowly at him, un-cowed. “You might find I’m harder to kill than I look,” she said, not rudely or flirtatiously—just stating a fact.

Her boss nodded, grin widening, as though her reply had pleased him. “Yeah, I don’t doubt it. So, want in?”

“Do I have a choice?” she asked, frowning slightly.

“Well, I mean, yeah. I don’t, strictly speaking, _need_ you to be involved with this plan.” (A statement that would become untrue in the following months. Mirage would make herself a necessity.) “So, if you want, you can stay out of it entirely. I won’t force you. You can just keep working as a regular surface-level employee of Syndrome Enterprises and forget you ever saw this paper. But if I were you, sweetheart, I wouldn’t. I would jump on this opportunity.”

“And why is that?” she said evenly, leaning back against the glowing table, looking at her boss with those amber eyes that seemed lit from within.

Syndrome looked surprised she would even ask such a question. “Because this is the chance of a lifetime! You’re never gonna get another chance to be involved with something crazy and genius like this. I mean, I don’t know about you, but me? I think life is a collage of experiences. And when you’re eighty years old and sitting in your fucking wheelchair in some backwoods retirement residence, you’re gonna want to look back on your life and think, _I did something big_. Right? Am I not right?”

 _Something big_. Well, that was certainly one way to describe this endeavor. Mirage hadn’t been expecting this response from her boss, and she carefully considered it.

“It’s serial murder what you’re proposing,” she finally said. “Is it not?”

Her boss waved a hand, pooh-poohing the idea. “If you want to think of it that way, sure. I think that’s unnecessarily gruesome. Although, I will add, the gruesome parts _are_ what make it fun.”

“That makes me curious. How do _you_ prefer to think of this venture?”

He shrugged. “Handing the world a much-needed sea change after decades of stagnation. That’s how I think about it. Ultimately, I’m gonna destroy the idiotic myth that supers are somehow better than the rest of us, and I’m gonna do that by giving _everyone_ the chance to be super with the help of my tech. If a number of supers have to die to fulfill my dream, well, it’s no problem for me. In fact, it’s a bonus. But that’s not the _focus_ , Mirage. The focus is not murder, the focus is on—” He held out his hand, counting down the points on his fingers, which were encased in white gloves. “First, destroying the myth. Second, getting my technology out there, making some damn _money_. Third, becoming a super myself. You know, Mirage—a beloved hero, smiling on the evening news, putting out propaganda by the bucketful, getting the whole world to fall in love with me. It’ll just cement point number one, huh? Because if _I_ can become a hero—little old me, a regular dude, no powers, no special assets, just technology—then any sucker can do it. Not only will I be a beloved mascot for the whole world to fawn over, but I’ll be living proof that supers aren’t special.”

“So this is all ideological. That’s what I’m hearing.”

A dangerous glint formed in Syndrome’s eyes. “Is that contempt I’m hearing, sweetheart? Like I said, you don’t have to participate. You can just walk the fuck away.”

“Not contempt,” she said smoothly. “It was just a question.”

“Well, to answer your question, no. It’s not all ideological. It’s just _mostly_ ideological. The rest is about money.”

“Do you really think this venture will end up being profitable?” she asked, trying her best not to sound contemptuous.

He slightly frowned. “Of course, why wouldn’t it be?”

“Because there’s so much that could go wrong. I’m not trying to cut you down, I’m just asking questions.”

“For example?”

“If one of the supers you intend to kill manages to escape and tells the world what you’ve done.”

“But that’s the beauty of it, sweetheart—they won’t know _we_ were trying to kill them. They’ll have no proof. They’ll just think this crazy autonomous robot is running amok outside of our control.”

“All right, that makes sense. But what if, after the supers begin to go missing one by one, someone gets suspicious? The government, for example?”

Syndrome made a huff of a laugh. “Oh, Mirage, don’t make me giggle. The government doesn’t give two shits about supers anymore. They’re a liability and nothing more. Every single one of them could vanish off the face of this Earth and the United States wouldn’t blink.”

“That’s an awfully big gamble,” she pointed out.

“Nah. It’s not. Trust me, the government _doesn’t care_. No one cares!”

“Their families, for instance?”

He smiled. “That’s the beauty of it. I’ve done some preliminary research—nothing serious, just poking through the private lives of some supers, uncovering their secret identities and all that. Most of ‘em don’t even _have_ families.”

“Hmm. I wonder why that is?” She was genuinely curious.

“Well, I think it’s simple. Most regular folks don’t want to settle down with somebody who has superpowers, and most supers don’t want to hide their identities from their spouse for the rest of their lives. Those two factors don’t mix well.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Various polls and shit, over the years. As well as some good old-fashioned powers of deduction.”

“All right, so most of them don’t have spouses. What about parents? Siblings? Friends?”

“I mean, what does it matter? Do you know how many supers there are in the United States alone?”

“No.”

“Neither do I. That’s the whole point, nobody knows. The closest estimate says a hundred thousand, probably more. A few supers going missing? It’s just like a few people with blonde hair going missing. Nobody’s going to connect the dots.”

“But you’re not just going after people with superpowers,” she pointed out. “You’re going after official, costumed heroes from the old times. There are far less of them, and the government monitors them closely…”

Syndrome shrugged one shoulder indifferently. “Aw, you’re being nitpicky. Nobody will miss the people we target. Trust me.”

“Is it possible,” she inquired with one slim eyebrow raised, “that you’re simply willing to ignore the more glaring issues with your plan, because your dedication to the plan is so strong?”

She hoped Syndrome didn’t read contempt in her voice yet again. Mirage was just getting to know her new employer, and she didn’t wish to alienate him. Especially not since her salary was _exorbitant_.

Luckily, the ginger didn’t look offended. “Eh, it’s possible,” he admitted flippantly. “I’ll own up to that. I’ve been plotting this out for a long time, Mirage. Probably over half my life now. I’m in deep. So yeah, I might be willing to excuse a few ‘glaring issues.’” (He made air quotes around these last words.)

Mirage had a pencil tucked behind her ear; she untucked it and tapped it errantly against her lips. “I have an idea. If you’re willing to hear it.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m willing,” said Syndrome, eyes sparking with interest.

“Simply don’t target the ones with families, with people who will miss them. Go after the low-hanging fruit. The ones who are homeless now, the lonely ones, the ones who have driven everybody away, the ones who the government doesn’t monitor so closely anymore. It’s simple, is it not?”

Her boss chuckled. “Yeah, good idea in theory, sweetheart.”

Mirage was rapidly growing tired of being called _sweetheart_ , but she suspected that, given a few more months, she’d grow to find it endearing. “In theory? What about in practice?”

“In practice, I don’t really wanna go after the low-hanging fruit.” His smile abruptly chilled her. “I want them all. Every single one of them. Low-hanging, high-hanging, who gives a shit? And I haven’t told you this yet, sweetheart, but the one I want the most? He’s the highest-hanging fruit of them all.”

“And who is that?”

Syndrome reached towards the table, briefly shuffling through a pile of glossy black and white photographs—each a portrait of a different superhero—that rested beside the blueprints. He finally located the one he wanted, and held it up before Mirage like a trophy. The portrait of a smug-looking, square-faced young superhero. Mirage recognized him instantly. He’d been rather famous, back when she was just a child.

“ _Señor Espectacular_ ,” she murmured; the words slipped out before she could stop them.

Her employer frowned. “Is that another name for him?”

“That’s what we called him when I was a girl,” she admitted, not wanting to give too many details of her past away. Syndrome wasn’t too interested in her history—only her skills, and she wanted to keep it that way. But now, at the very least, he knew she grew up Spanish-speaking. Oh, well. That detail only meant she could be one of over 300 million people in dozens of countries across three continents. She wasn’t too upset about letting it slip.

“Hmm,” Syndrome said, unconcerned as far as Mirage could tell. “He’s probably had many names. I knew him as Mr. Incredible. It’s him I want in the end. I want the Omnidroid to plow through super after super until it’s finally strong enough to take him down. _Then_ , the robot will be ready.”

There was a fierce hunger in her employer; she sensed it and saw it, and it slightly frightened her, and more than slightly intrigued her. “High-hanging fruit, indeed,” she said. “As far as I recall, he’s one of the most powerful supers in history.”

With a flip of his hand, Syndrome flippantly tossed the picture back onto the table, where it slid across the blueprints. “Yeah, and when he goes up against the Omnidroid, it’ll be like a puppy fighting a fuckin’ condor. I’ll make sure of it.”

He gave Mirage a sharp glance, eyes narrowed. “I mean, _we’ll_ make sure of it. If you’re interested.”

“I’m still undecided.”

“Hey, any idiot could see you’re not sold. You’ve got your doubts, huh?”

“I have doubts,” she said evenly. “Questions, comments, queries. No rudeness intended, but the plan does not seem solid to me.”

“Hmm.” Syndrome rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “That’s exactly why I need somebody like you on my side. You’re intelligent. You can help me pick through the flaws, be a sounding board for me.”

“And if I refuse?”

A smile, a shrug. “Not the end of the world. I mean, in my opinion, you’d be missing out. But then again… I haven’t exactly given you an incentive to help me, have I?”

“Not particularly,” said Mirage carefully.

“You want incentive? I’ll double your salary. How about them apples?”

His eyes gleamed as he eagerly watched her face for a reaction. Mirage kept herself neutral. Inside she was screaming.

Her pay was already off-the-charts. But doubled? She might become one of the highest-salaried women in the world.

“That sounds like a tempting offer,” she said calmly. “I’ll consider it.”

“Yeah, take your time, sweetheart. But don’t take too much time. I’m eager to get this thing rolling. And once I do, nobody is going to get in my way.”

On one hand, Mirage could stay out of Syndrome’s plans. That would certainly be the smart move. His plot was on shaky ground—legally _and_ structurally—and if they were caught or something went wrong, multiple nasty fates could ensue. Death. Imprisonment. More death. Also, if things went Syndrome’s way, Mirage would be taking part in the murder of dozens of innocents. Not that she hadn’t killed before, but so far, none of her marks had been innocent people. They’d all been corrupt government officials, terrorists, friends to terrorists, arms dealers. Not innocents. Not by a long shot.

On the other hand, there was a _lot_ of money.

Mirage might have listened to her conscience, her moral qualms and her misgivings. In another universe. In this universe, Syndrome was offering her so much money that she simply couldn’t refuse.

Her boss asked her to give the plan a cool name. “I’ve just been calling it ‘the plan’ for ten years,” he admitted. “Not catchy.”

Mirage racked her brain, came up with several ideas. Syndrome rejected them all. The plan was his baby, after all, and its name was important to him. And, as far as he was concerned, this plan would shape the entire world. This plan would be read about in history books decades from now. This plan needed a good name.

Then, finally, she was poring over a book of Greek mythology overnight in her small, intimate bedroom, lit by an opaque orange wave of lava gently flowing down one wall, which was covered by a thin lair of protective glass and also served to heat her room. She errantly flipped a page and came across the story of a mighty titan who overthrew his father, whose great power he had envied, and became the new king.

She came to Syndrome early next morning, standing on a high balcony built into the side of the volcano, where they could overlook almost the entire western portion of the island.

“I’ve got a name for you,” she said, and told him why they should call the plan “Operation Kronos.”

After she’d explained, Syndrome was wearing a smile, and she realized she wasn’t about to hear another rejection.

“Perfect,” he said.


	2. II: Atrapado (Universal Man)

The first super they targeted was named Universal Man.

Mirage was working at her desk in her small office on the western half of the island, sorting through some papers relating to a contract Syndrome had been negotiating with Yemen, when her boss opened the door without knocking and unceremoniously tossed a yellow file folder onto her desk.

“Meet the first guy we’re gonna kill,” he announced, trying to sound relaxed and failing, as boyish eagerness bled through.

She opened the file, examined the first thing she found there, which was a glossy photograph of a superhero with three spiky fins on the top of his head-covering mask. Analysis of the second page, a brief dossier, revealed his name.

“Universal Man?” she inquired, looking up at her boss.

“Yup. I picked the low-hanging fruit for our first time, just like you recommended. The Omnidroid VX1 isn’t ready to take on a _real_ super, but a low-level schmuck like this guy…” He clapped his hands together. “Piece’a cake.”

Mirage frowned as she continued to read. “Syndrome, it says here that this man can turn indestructible at whim. How can we hope to defeat him?”

“Relax, he can only keep himself indestructible in short bursts, and it takes a shit-ton of energy. We’ll get him.”

“And it says _here_ …” She ran a slender finger along the chart she was reading, frowning even harder. “…that he never had a secret identity. How am I supposed to find him?”

“They forced supers underground, Mirage,” Syndrome said slowly as though he were speaking to a child. “He _has_ to have an identity. They would’ve made sure of it. Look, just find him, okay? Find him and we’ll end him.”

Find him she did, though it took every ounce of her skill. Syndrome had certainly given her a challenge this time around. Mirage took one of Syndrome’s private, automated jets to the United States, where she spent a full month tracking down this identityless superhero.

And the man _didn’t_ have an identity: for all his intelligence and all the times he turned out to be correct, Syndrome was wrong on this one count.

Through bribes and detective work and searching dusty archives and calling in favors, Mirage learned that Universal Man’s name at birth had been Joseph Holz, but this identity and social security number had not been used in over two decades, so that was a dead end. She went to seedy dives and police stations alike, and she learned from several sources of various reliabilities that after superheroes were banned, Universal Man had rejected the NSA’s offer to give him a civilian identity, and rejected it harshly. After that, his trail went cold.

She managed to trace Joseph Holz’s younger sister, Thelma, who was living in a particularly slummy portion of Chicago. As police sirens wailed distantly outside, Mirage sat on a ratty couch in Thelma’s unkempt fourth-floor apartment, which reeked of cigarette smoke. Thelma sat on a nearby living chair that looked about ready to collapse under her.

“Try Boulder City,” Thelma said, hair wrapped in a shower cap to protect her still-absorbing cardamom yellow dye job. Her accent was quite Austrian.

Thelma didn’t elaborate. Mirage, holding a lukewarm Styrofoam cup of coffee between her hands, delicately inquired, “May I ask why?”

Thelma lifted her robe-clad shoulders, let them fall. “We lived a lot of places when we were kids. He liked Boulder City the most. That’s all I know.”

Mirage tried Boulder City, and she didn’t hit gold. Perhaps she hit _silver_ , though. After four days of investigating, she met a sweaty, goateed bartender in a seedy, smoky dive. He shouted over the rusty din of the terrible live band who was performing that night. “Holz? Joseph? Oh, you mean Universal Man?”

Mirage tried not to crack a happy smile at this unexpected breakthrough. “Yes, the very same. Are you familiar with him?”

“Familiar? The guy’s like my cousin. Used to come in here every day, twelve o’clock sharp, like he was on a schedule. I have no idea where he’s at nowadays, though. Sad.”

Her heart sunk at this revelation. Maybe Boulder City was a dud after all.

“But I can take you to a guy who _might_ know where he is,” the bartender yelled, polishing a glass while he spoke. “No promises, but I’ll help how I can. Seeing how you’re wanting to help him and all.”

Mirage knew it would be an adjustment process, figuring out exactly how to find and lure and lie to their targets, especially since this was her very first time around. For this particular effort, she’d invented the lie that she was a “government agent” (agency: unspecified, but the barkeep didn’t seem to notice), who was concerned enough about Holz’s welfare to consider him a missing person. They would see how well this lie worked, in order to determine whether they would use it in future. No doubt their lies would grow more sophisticated as time went on.

“I would truly appreciate any help you can offer,” she told the bartender warmly, speaking loudly over the music. “My only goal is to find this man and ensure his safety.”

Count one: true. Count two: not so much.

Mirage ended up speaking with a gang member in the back of a warehouse, who only gave up any relevant information after Mirage made it very clear to him that _she_ was the one in charge. Said gang member directed her to a man called Paul “Philadelphia” Packard, a scruffy-looking older man who wore a hockey jersey and sold what Mirage suspected were marijuana plants out of the back of his van. Philadelphia was gold. He was the ticket who led Mirage to her target.

“He sometimes calls me still,” said Philadelphia fondly as they stood in the parking lot behind his apartment, with him carefully loading tall, potted marijuana plants into the open back of his white van. “Yeah, I know where he’s at, better than anyone. He’s on Sunday Street in Las Vegas.”

A promising lead, and Mirage had no reason to doubt the reputable Philadelphia. “If I may ask, how exactly were you acquainted with Universal Man?”

“Oh, we met on the streets. I was homeless a few years back. So was he, but he made a point of saving us regular people all the time. He saved my life from a guy that wanted to do away with me in a back alley.” Philadelphia chuckled. “My half-sister’s uncle, what a mess that was. Anyhow, Universal Man. He didn’t have a home or a super suit no more, but he’d help whoever needed help, no matter what.”

Mirage impassively thought that if she were a single percent less cold-hearted, this information would have got under her skin. Luckily, she was not.

She did not find Universal Man on Sunday Street, but met found a raggedy homeless woman who told her where she _could_ find him. “Green Avenue. Can’t miss him.”

On Green Avenue, she finally struck gold.

On one side of the road, there was a fence leading to a large area of bleak filth that used to be a playground, but which was now abandoned and covered with trash and dirt. On the other side, there was a row of dumpy buildings and the distant sound of sirens. It was quite a bleak place. He lay in a pile of rags, leaned up against the back of a grocery store. Mirage approached him. She was clean as a whistle, wearing expensive clothes—pin-straight pencil skirt and fashionable black blazer. There couldn’t have been a more blatant contrast between her and the man who lay there, the sleeping, dirt-covered man with his raggedy beard. The man who had once been a superhero. Or so she assumed.

She didn’t address him by his birth name; it was clear Holz didn’t identify with that any longer, if he ever had. “Universal Man?” she said instead.

He blinked awake and turned his head toward her, not comprehending.

“Universal Man,” she repeated. “Is that you?”

He blinked again, and she felt intense pity for him. He was so damned pathetic. Maybe death would be a mercy for him.

“Yes, I’m Universal Man. Or at least I was,” he finally said. His voice was surprisingly clear, not garbled as one would expect from his appearance. His accent was thickly Austrian like that of his sister, but his English was perfect.

She smiled, kneeling down to his level (though careful to not actually allow her knees to touch the filthy street). “My name is Mirage,” she told him.

“How do you know who I am?”

“Your reputation precedes you. Many on the street speak about your good deeds. You have many out there who love you, Universal Man.” Gently build up his ego; that was her prerogative.

It worked. He hesitantly smiled under that dirty, bushy beard. “Really? I just do what I can…”

“But you can do so much,” she praised him. “Protecting kids from shotgun blasts, stopping robberies, saving women…”

“It’s just what anybody with my abilities should do,” he modestly said.

“You do so much already, Universal Man. But you could do _so much more_.”

His eyes brightened. Syndrome was right; this guy was low-hanging fruit. So easily swayed. “What do you mean?”

She practiced her carefully-crafted lies for the first time. “I represent a division of the government which deals with technological development. We’re as top-secret and classified as you can get, and we’re in need of someone with your abilities.”

“A super?” he asked, eagerly leaning forward. “You need a super?”

“Correct. We need someone like you.”

“For what purpose?”

“Our division has recently developed a prototypical robotic device which was meant to become a weapon for the United States military. Unfortunately, the prototype has developed limited awareness and escaped at our testing facility on an island in the south Pacific. It is isolated on the island, which means the public is not currently in danger, but it threatens to damage hundreds of millions of dollars worth of equipment, as well as endangering our staff.”

He caught on quickly. “So you want _me_ to help you with that?” She heard the true question in his voice. _Little old me? Insignificant me? Low-powered me?_

“Yes, you.” She knew the man was of low-self esteem, and inflating his ego would help to ensnare him—as would likely be the case with all supers she encountered. “We believe you are the perfect candidate. Your powers make you uniquely qualified to help us. You see, we need the robot disabled, but not totally destroyed. It represents a significant investment, and its loss would be financially devastating to us.”

“My powers…?” He seemed confused, and she couldn’t blame him for it. His abilities included indestructibility-at-will and flight, neither of which seemed uniquely suited for destroying a robot on the rampage.

She continued to lie. “The robot’s stamina is not especially strong. It will attempt to attack you, as it does with all humans it encounters. But with your powers, you can simply turn yourself quite dense. If you become dense enough—which we know you can—the robot will either wear itself out attacking you, or the simple act of attacking you will cause it to break down. At least, this is what we theorize. Either way, there will be no danger to you. And you will be compensated fairly.”

She knew Universal Man was desperate enough to do the work for free, but still, it was fair of him to ask the question he asked next. “Compensated…?” he repeated.

Mirage uttered a three-figure sum. The man’s mouth dropped wide open and he babbled for a few moments, and she felt such intense pity she could hardly breathe. She imagined the hope, the wild sweet hope, that was going through Universal Man’s head and heart at this moment. He could rebuild his life. Start fresh. Do whatever he wanted.

When he finally regained the ability to speak, Universal Man told her a story.

“When supers were banned, the NSA offered to help me build a secret identity, since I didn’t really have one. I told them no. They tried real hard to convince me; I told them no again and again until they finally gave up and left. Since then, I’ve been nobody. Living on the street, trying my best to help who I can, but I never felt like a real super, and it’s been hell. A super is all I am, all I ever wanted to be, and when that was taken away from me, I felt like garbage.” He exhaled and Mirage saw tears running down his face, knew she had him ensnared. “But with that money… y’know, I can do real hero work. Buy myself a good suit and build my strength up with good food and finally be a real hero again, like I’m meant to be. And in the daytime, I can hire lawyers, learn my rights, fight for all of us to have the right to do our work in public again.” He leaned forward and clasped both her arms in his hands; she fought the urge to recoil. “Oh, Mirage. Thank you. You don’t know what this means to me. Of course I’ll help you. I’ll do my absolute best. Thank you. Thank you.”

She hadn’t expected this speech, and felt a cocktail of disgust, pity and self-hatred. This poor man. This poor idiot. She was going to help kill him.

“No, thank _you_ , sir,” she told him warmly, gently disentangling herself from him. “Thank _you_.”

She brought him to the island aboard their automated plane. He marveled at everything: the automatic drink dispenser, the fact that there was no pilot, the robotic voice who responded to their questions.

“This thing is great!” he cried, sitting in a plush chair across from Mirage with a mimosa in hand. “I never saw anything like it!”

She’d cleaned him up, fixed him up nicely—of course she wouldn’t have presented him before Syndrome looking like _that_. His beard was gone and he was now clean-shaven, revealing a square, surprisingly-handsome face underneath, complete with endearing laugh crinkles under the eyes. Instead of torn clothes that amounted to little more than filthy rags, he wore his cobalt blue super suit from the glory days. He’d been saving it all these years, it was his prized possession, his _only_ possession, other than the clothes on his back. He’d kept it surprisingly pristine, but still, Mirage had had it dry-cleaned. It didn’t fit him quite as well nowadays. He was thin as a rail from years of malnourishment, not buff any longer, and it hung on his frame rather than fitting tightly. Still, it looked all right. It was a nice color, Mirage thought.

“Everything here is meant to serve your needs,” she told him. “Anything you want will be given to you. Only ask.”

This was a ploy meant to assuage him and make him comfortable, but it was also true. For these final sweet hours before he fought the Omnidroid, Universal Man would have whatever he needed. Mimosas, good food, comfort. At least he’d have that much in his final moments.

She knew how sweet it was for him to feel needed once again. This was what she and Syndrome were planning to exploit with every super they encountered. And this time, it was working like a charm.

Mirage dropped Joseph Holz off via a pod that shot from the automated airplane, auto-piloting its way down like a meteor into the jungle. She watched from a window as it went.

One of Syndrome’s anonymous, masked henchmen—Mirage only knew a few of them by name, and only because they’d been insubordinate and had received Syndrome’s punishment—smirked beside her. He had helped load Universal Man into the pod, who’d smiled as he went, so trustingly. “So long, sucker. Right?” the henchman leered.

She didn’t respond, turned away from the window. “Automated captain, please take us down to the landing pad,” she ordered. Syndrome had wanted her to be by his side to watch Universal Man crumble under his invention’s attacks. She didn’t want to make her boss wait. Hopefully Universal Man lasted long enough for her to join Syndrome before he died.

Join Syndrome, she did. She hurriedly entered his observation room, where Syndrome stood in the dark in front of a large television screen, which was flanked by glowing blue dials and indicators. “Mirage! I almost thought you were gonna sit this one out,” he said, seeming genuinely glad she was there. “Weak stomach?”

“No. It just took me this long to get here.” She stood beside him, holding a clipboard, one that displayed Universal Man’s basic attributes—abilities, past—so Syndrome could refer to it as he pleased. He _didn’t_ please, however; he seemed transfixed on the screen before him. One of his inventions, a moving video camera which closely resembled a toucan, was secretly following Universal Man’s every move; the hero’s exploits were on the screen before him, though he currently wasn’t doing anything but stumbling stupidly through the jungle, looking left and right.

She hadn’t seen her boss since departing the island a month before, and she rather hoped he’d offer some praise for her detective work. He didn’t. “Look, that’s his old super suit,” Syndrome exclaimed, eyes wide in delight. “Has it still got the—hell yeah, it’s still got the head spikes! I always thought those things were cool as shit when I was a kid.” He chuckled. “Now I think they’re kind of stupid looking. You’re telling me he kept that thing all those years while he was a hobo on the streets? Now _that’s_ commitment.”

“He did,” Mirage confirmed. “In good condition.”

“Yeah? No restoration or anything? Well, it looks great.”

“I _did_ have it dry-cleaned…”

Something surprising happened, then. For the first time ever, her boss displayed genuine anger towards her. “Dry-cleaned?” he demanded, turning towards her. “Jesus, Mirage. That’s an Edna Mode suit, an old classic. You _never_ dry-clean that shit. It has to be specially attended to. Christ, everyone knows that. You could’ve destroyed it. Or, worse, outed us.” He was nearly shouting by the end of this last sentence.

She blinked, shocked by his anger, before becoming defensive. “With respect, what else was I meant to do? Who is there, out there today, who specially cleans superhero costumes? It needed cleaning—I had no choice.”

“You should’ve brought it back here and let me deal with that. All due respect to _you_ , sweetheart, but I’m the super authority around here—you don’t know much more than cursory information about them. I know how to handle a super suit. Maybe I’ll teach you someday, but in the meantime, just let me handle that kind of thing. Or at least ask for my advice before you go crazy. Okay?”

She bit back a harsh response; his anger had left, but his tone was so sickly-sweet patronizing that she almost couldn’t help administering a sharp rebuke. But she did rein herself in. “I apologize,” she said smoothly. “From now on, all suit matters are yours to handle.”

He’d calmed down entirely by now, and gave a chuckle. “It’s alright, sweetheart. Just don’t make a mistake like that again. Oh, shit, look—something’s up.”

She focused her attention on the screen, where Universal Man had suddenly shifted into a defensive crouch, where he remained, stock-still. Mirage was still, too. Waiting in anticipation. A sick fear took hold in her stomach.

The Omnidroid crashed through the jungle’s lush trees, so suddenly that even Mirage jolted. The cylindrical robot moved on two wheels and had two clawlike arms; at first glance it didn’t look too frightening, but Mirage knew it could kill. It aimed a gigantic pincer at Universal Man, who dodged just in time.

“That scare you?” Syndrome asked in amusement as Universal Man dodged yet another blow.

She narrowed her eyes, focusing hard on the unfolding drama before her.

Universal Man continued dodging, and finally leapt into the air, where he hovered just below the canopy of trees; he was outside of the Omnidroid’s reach. There he remained, staring down as the robot pinched up at him with its claws. Mirage knew the man had used his powers to make himself less dense than the air, allowing him to float—but only for a brief spurt at a time.

Syndrome leaned forward in interest. “Oh, man. He doesn’t have a plan, he’s thinking hard. Dumbass. He can only stay in the air for short bursts. He’s gonna waste all his energy. What’s he gonna do?”

“He is probably too frightened to allow the robot to attack him directly, as I told him he should do,” Mirage muttered in thought. “He’ll remember my words in a moment, I think.”

“You think, sweetheart? We’ll see.” Syndrome stared at the screen and she could almost see the calculations happening inside his head. “If it doesn’t manage to kill him, the next one I design will have jointed legs, the ability to jump. So that this kind of thing doesn’t happen again.”

Finally, Universal Man lowered back to the ground. The Omnidroid continued to snap at him from below, until he finally lowered into its reach. It snapped its pincers around his body, squeezing tight. A regular man would have been crushed to death or ripped apart; however, as much as the machine exerted itself, nothing happened to Universal Man, who remained calm in the robot’s clutches.

The machine seemed to realize his invulnerability and let him go; he sank quickly to the ground.

“Now things get interesting,” said Syndrome.

“I told him he should simply allow the machine to attack him and it’d wear out quickly,” Mirage reminded Syndrome. “I think he’ll take my advice.”

Her employer laughed heartily. “Idiot.”

As Universal Man stood steady on the ground and stared up at the robot, fearful but staunch, the Omnidroid changed tactics; it lifted a giant claw and brought it down, hard.

Universal Man was knocked to the ground, but unharmed. Mirage watched as his grainy form on the screen stared up at the robot, still determined.

The robot lifted its claw again. Another blow. This time, the man’s resolve was shaken; Mirage could see it.

Another hard blow against the super’s body. This time, Universal Man looked winded, eyes wide and mouth puffing for breath.

“He’s losing control,” Syndrome murmured.

“Just as we thought,” Mirage murmured back.

When the Omnidroid lifted its large metal claw once again, Universal Man apparently decided his limits had been tested enough. He struggled to his feet, attempting to run.

“His power is only good in short bursts, and he’s losing energy.” Syndrome laughed as though it were all a game—which, Mirage assumed, it was. “What the hell kind of super is he, anyway?”

“You were never a fan, I presume?” she asked dryly.

He shook his ginger head. “Nah. I liked the big guys better—Incredible, Meta Man, Gamma Jack. Not small fry like this loser.”

As Universal Man limped away, apparently drained of energy, the Omnidroid caught up with devastating ease, rolling up behind him with its two wheels, pushing palm trees easily aside like no more than pathetic bowling pins. The exhausted super had no chance.

“He’s going to die,” Syndrome said, delighted like a kid under a Christmas tree. “Mirage, I think we actually did it. We’re going to pull this thing off. Not that there was ever any doubt,” he quickly corrected himself. “Still, though, it feels good.”

“It does,” she lied quietly as the Omnidroid grabbed Universal Man, one pincer holding onto his legs while the other gripped his torso, hauling him into the air and attempting to yank him apart. Desperate for his life, the super apparently managed to make himself invulnerable again, for the first few moments of pulling had no effect. Then, the man apparently lost the last of his stamina.

Mirage had seen many gruesome things in her career, but the end result made her wince and turn to the side.

Syndrome laughed loudly, a sound straight from his belly, and clapped his hands together. “Perfect. Absolutely fucking _perfect_ ,” he crowed.

She forced herself to look again, before Syndrome realized she’d looked away. “A masterful outcome,” she murmured. “We couldn’t have hoped for better.”

“The only downside to this is that the robot won’t learn anything from it,” Syndrome theorized. “Because it was all so goddamn pristine. Holy crap, Mirage, I think we can actually do this.”

“Not that there was ever any doubt,” she repeated his words from earlier, this time with a dryness to them. She felt strangely sick, like a filthy traitor. Curse her sentimentality. Curse her heart for not being completely stone. Not yet.


	3. III: Psíquica (Psycwave)

The plan steamrolled onward.

Another weak super was next on the menu, and this time, Mirage assisted her boss in choosing who they would target. For their purposes, they only looked at superheroes who the National Supers Agency had designated as having a threat level less than 3.0, on a scale that went as high as 10. After all, the Omnidroid was still a work in progress, and it wouldn’t do to pit the machine against a super who could easily turn it into scrap metal. It wouldn’t do at all.

Instead, Mirage and Syndrome went after the small fry, the little guys, whose supers who had barely commanded any level of respect even in their golden years.

Mirage herself personally chose their next victim.

After a week of research, Mirage presented the file of her chosen target to Syndrome, whilst they feasted on a banquet dinner in his grand dining hall. A wall of lava silently flowed next to them, the only light in the dim room. As she approached the table and sat down to her meal, Mirage lifted a file and slid it across the long table to Syndrome with precision. He stopped it from sliding off the table’s edge with a hand, and flipped it open with interest.

“Psycwave, huh? You know, I’m a huge super fan, but I barely remember this one.”

“I’m not surprised. She is not a very impressive subject,” Mirage admitted, picking up a silver fork and spearing a piece of broccoli on the plate that was already prepared before her. “She has a very low threat rating, and as far as I can discern, she accomplished little of note during her career.”

“Huh. That sounds pretty perfect to me. Pathetic, but perfect. Do we know her location?”

Mirage offered him a cool smile. “We soon will.”

“Perfect.” He spoke past a mouthful of artisanal roast chicken. “You know, sweetheart, you’re becoming one of the most valuable parts of this operation. I might just hafta keep you around.”

“You flatter me,” Mirage demurred, “but we both know you’re the kingpin.”

He nodded, smiling. “Yeah. We both know that.”

Her boss began to grow out his red hair, intending to coax it into “a _real_ supervillain style,” because he fancied himself a real supervillain, and who was Mirage to deny him that? Still, she truly had to admit, she had preferred his cropped hair. It had been quite becoming to his face.

To Syndrome, “real supervillains” were his icons, his paragons, the figures he studied and worshipped and attempted to emulate. Their flamboyant styles, outrageous lairs, grandiose speeches—he consumed them all ravenously, recounting them to Mirage in vivid detail.

“…but Von Ruthless was the most impressive in that regard, I think. Stupid name, yeah—they all had stupid names, and his was the stupidest. But of course, the stupid name makes the villain. But anyway, I’m talking about torture machines. His was the best. He had a gigantic chamber full of every high-tech implement you can think of—drills, saws, carnivores he always kept hungry, electrodes. My containment chamber, y’know, the zero-point energy one, the electrocution chamber—I modeled that after him. I think it’s elegant. Of course, his only was capable of delivering a hundred volts. I know a super can take much more than that, so my machine is capable of thousands of volts.” He chuckled. “ _That’ll_ make a super smoke. Mirage, are you listening?”

“I’m on the phone,” she mouthed at him, annoyed at his obliviousness. If her boss was prone to anything more than showboating, it was monologuing.

They were sitting in Syndrome’s small personal living room, an intimate place with a few comfortable modern sofas, lava lamps (of which her boss was secretly quite fond), and—as with almost every room in the place—one wall was coated entirely in flowing lava which silently fell down and lit the room. Mirage had a phone pressed to her ear. She was currently attempting to get information from a courthouse on the secret identity of Psycwave, under the pretense of being an NSA agent. She knew that during Psycwave’s career, the super had been most active in Contra Costa County, so that was where she began her hunt.

The documents were well-sealed. Mirage could get them, though. Mirage could get anything. The phone was only her first resort.

“Come on, babe, listen to me. Am I not more important than the phone?” Syndrome could get whiny when he was drunk, which he was, only slightly, but drunk all the same. He had taken to calling her _babe_ in recent days, which was somewhat more alarming than _sweetheart_.

She hoped to god he wasn’t falling for her. That was the absolute last thing she needed. She wanted her boss to like her, to admire her strengths and skills, but she did not want to seduce this man, even if by accident. That was a danger which would be hell to navigate. Oh, was it.

She heard a sudden noise on the other end, and pressed the phone more firmly to her ear. She heard the nasally voice of the courthouse secretary. “Sorry, ma’am. We can’t verify your credentials. Good day.”

“Wait one sec—” Mirage’s plea was cut off by a click, followed by a dial tone. She pressed her lips together in frustration as she replaced the phone on its hook on the wall behind her.

“No dice?” her boss asked.

“No,” she confirmed, sighing. “I will have to head to California and get the information for myself. It was worth a try.”

“By ‘get it for yourself,’ you mean…?”

“Breaking and entering,” she said, amused. “What did you think I meant?”

“No, that was what I thought. Just wanted to hear you say it.”

She was highly conscious of how this situation looked, and she was quite ready to stop any advances from Syndrome as they came. Alone together in his private chambers, the lights dimmed, at seven o’clock in the evening… it was positively scandalous. And _he’d_ been the one to invite her here, and _he’d_ been the one to offer her a glass of red wine, which she’d politely nursed all evening, while her boss guzzled it straight from the bottle like it was his last day on Earth. And _he_ was the one who was looking at her like that, right now, while she pretended not to notice. Was he a starving dog, or a lost puppy? Both? She read both on his face.

Mirage was a calculating woman. Right now, she was attempting to calculate how to turn down Syndrome’s inevitable sexual advance without demolishing the professional relationship they had build.

When her young employer opened his mouth she fully expected a filthy proposition to emerge, but instead: “Do you think what we’re doing is evil?”

She hadn’t anticipated this, and she blinked for a moment, recalculating her reply. “It depends on how you define evil, I think,” she responded. “Do you define it by intent, or do you define it by action? If you define it by action, then yes. If you define it by intent, then perhaps not so much.”

This, despite the fact that she truly believed the question deserved a straight _yes_.

Her boss leaned forward on his sofa, regarding his employee with that odd hunger. “Huh. Interesting response. So you think my intent is pure? _Our_ intent?”

He never missed a chance to remind her that _she_ was in the thick of this, too.

She shrugged, looking at her boss with cool amber eyes, clutching the cold stem of her wineglass as though it could lift her to safety. “It’s a grey area, I believe. You intend to change the world for the better—and surely the entire world, billions of souls, is worth more than the lives of… how many supers, twenty overall? In the end, the result will be worth the crimes we committed.” She delicately stressed that word, “we,” to remind him that yes, she was still loyal, and he did not need to test her.

“True, true. But it’s up to every individual to decide whether the world will be _better off_ when I’m through with it.” He laughed.

“I believe it will.” She didn’t know if this was true; she hadn’t decided yet. She just knew that this was what Syndrome wished to hear.

“You do? Elaborate.”

Her lies flowed smooth like a river. “The world is entranced by the comforting lies that supers provide simply by existing. That there is a whole class of people who are better than them, superior to them, and who deserve to rule over them. If billions of people finally awaken and learn that we are all equal no matter our abilities…” She lifted her slim shoulders, taking another sip of wine before she continued, her eyes never leaving Syndrome’s. “I see nothing wrong with that,” she finished. “Only good.”

She paused, listening to his silence for a moment, before adding with a lilting laugh, “And we will make money. That doesn’t hurt.”

He pointed a finger at her, grinning. “We _will_ make money. You’re goddamn right. And you’re right about everything else. That’s exactly why I’m doing all this shit. It’s not about murder. It’s about justice.”

That was bullshit, even if Syndrome had convinced himself of its veracity. This all was _really_ about revenge, and after revenge, then it was surely more about money than justice. Mirage knew that, but she did not dare to say it.

Syndrome was silent for a moment, taking a long swig from the half-empty wine bottle. Then he said, “You ever heard of Bentham? Utilitarianism? All that shit?”

She had studied philosophy extensively. “I may have,” she modestly demurred.

“Well, it’s like that. Right? The most pleasure for the most people. If a few supers have to give up their lives for the whole world to be better off, then I’m not doing anything wrong. According to Bentham and Mill and all them. Huh? Tell me I’m wrong.”

This was drastically oversimplifying matters, but on a base level… “That’s right,” she admitted. “You’re not wrong. Still, there are other philosophers who would argue that the action is what matters. Not the intent, not the end result.”

“Not interested in their opinions,” he said indifferently. “I’ve made up my mind about what matters to me.”

“Then why are we even having this discussion?” She tried to keep all annoyance from her tone, but failed to do so.

He shrugged, leaning back on the sofa with legs spread rather obnoxiously, taking up far more space than he needed, as usual. “I just like to hear you talk.”

Oh, well, she couldn’t blame him. Her voice _was_ buttery. She wasn’t being vain; dozens of men, and a not-insignificant number of women, had told her so.

“I could return the compliment,” she murmured before taking another sip of wine.

Was Psycwave easier to find than Universal Man had been? Well, yes. Psycwave had a secret identity, a home, a paper trail leading to her location. She was much easier to track. But ensnaring her? That was another matter altogether.

Mirage flew to the United States mainland. There, she—quite ably, and wearing gloves and a hat to keep her fingerprints and hair from being left behind—broke into the Contra Costa County Superior Courthouse in the dead hours of night. She deftly avoided security guards, managed not to trigger any alarms, and headed down to the basement with her flashlight leading the way. There she found rows upon rose of dusty file cabinets. She looked under “P,” but found nothing of import; evidently, if any superhero files were located here, they weren’t filed under their super names. That meant Mirage had to look through _every single file_ to locate Psycwave.

She allowed herself an annoyed sigh before getting started.

In a huge stroke of luck, she didn’t have to look long—at least, not relatively speaking. It only took half an hour of pulling out dusty files and scanning their contents before Mirage reached the “B” section and soon located the file of Valentina Briner-Kühn. At first glance, nothing about the file seemed interesting: Briner-Kühn was a woman who would now be in her late forties, a clinical psychologist who had apparently endured citation for several traffic violations. But as Mirage fingered one of the legal forms contained within, she realized it was slightly—but noticeably—lumpier than it should have been, were it simply a normal sheet of paper. A few moments of gently picking at the paper’s edge, and it peeled into two sheets; she smiled as it did. Bingo.

Contained within was another folded sheet of paper, which Mirage carefully unfolded. Bingo again. It was a wealth of information. 

Valentina Briner-Kühn was not simply Valentina Briner-Kühn. She was also Psycwave, a super with paranoid tendencies and psychic powers. _Weak_ psychic powers, in point of fact. Mirage knew that Psycwave would never defeat the Omnidroid. In fact, the thought of this flimsy super going up against Syndrome’s death machine was almost too unfair for Mirage to bear.

Almost.

Mirage heard distant noises, voices: it was possible someone was descending the staircase that led down to the basement. She’d need to hide, but first, she continued scanning the paper in front of her, searching for that nugget of gold: the location of Briner-Kühn’s address, where she’d been relocated upon the instatement of the Superhero Relocation Program.

The voices grew closer and Mirage’s heart began to thump doubletime. She continued scanning the page, growing a little more frantic and trying to keep her cool.

There. An address. At least at the time of this writing, Briner-Kühn lived on a cul-de-sac on the outskirts of New York City.

That was all she needed.

By the time two security guards descended into the downstairs, waving flashlights around and confused about why the basement door had been left ajar, Mirage had already melted into the shadows, and the file cabinet was neatly closed.

A few days later on a Saturday morning, Dr. Valentina Briner-Kühn, noted psychologist, author, and holder of two PhDs, awoke at eight o’clock to find a strange package slipped under her front door.

Mirage watched from her car, parked on the street outside the doctor’s home, and using special binoculars to view the scene through a window. The doctor was of a slim build, with wavy blonde hair, a mole on her cheek, tired brown eyes, and wrinkles denoting her middle age, but still quite pretty at the age of forty-eight. Mirage watched as Dr. Briner-Kühn leaned down with a frown, retrieving the package on her floor. She returned to her full height, holding the small brown package in her hands, and staring at the object confusedly. Mirage wanted to watch her open it, but moments later, the doctor walked away, disappearing from view.

Mirage switched to thermal imaging on her binoculars, allowing her to penetrate the walls of the home and watch as the multicolored outline of Dr. Briner-Kühn’s figure opened up the package. Mirage smiled as she beheld it. This was certainly a more elegant method than the manner in which she had contacted Joseph Holz, that was for certain.

Mirage knew what was happening within the house. The doctor had discovered a strange computer tablet—one of Syndrome’s more advanced inventions—hidden within the innocent-looking yellow package. Even as Mirage watched, the doctor’s outline dropped the tablet in shock as it began to scan the room, searching for security issues: bugs, other listeners, and so forth. When it was finished, an image of Mirage herself would appear on the screen, seductive and mysterious: perfectly calculated to reel in a super.

She had the message memorized. She planned to use an identical script for further supers, only slightly tinkering with its content to match specific circumstances. Syndrome himself had approved it. Actually, he’d written some of it. Say what you want about Buddy Pine, but you can’t say he wasn’t involved.

This was the message Dr. Briner-Kühn was hearing: 

_Good morning, Psycwave._

_Yes, we know who you are. Rest assured, your secret is safe with us. My name is Mirage. You and I have something in common: according to the government, neither of us exist._

(This was Mirage’s personal favorite part of the message, because it was true: you couldn’t find details of Mirage’s existence in any public venue, governmental or otherwise. Officially, she was a ghost.)

_Please pay attention, as this message is classified and will not be repeated. I represent a top-secret division of the government, designing and testing experimental technology, and we have need of someone with your unique abilities. Something has happened at our testing facility. A prototype battle robot, endowed with experimental artificial intelligence, has broken loose of its confines and escaped. Although it is contained within an isolated area, it threatens to cause incalculable damage to itself and to our facilities, jeopardizing hundreds of millions of dollars worth of equipment, not to mention personnel on the island._

(All bullshit, by the way. All of it.)

_Because of its highly sensitive nature, this unique mission requires a unique perspective. That perspective belongs to you, Psycwave. You will be an invaluable godsend to us. We ask you to come to the island and assist with deactivating the robot, preferably without major damage to the asset itself. If you accept, your payment will be triple your current annual salary. Call the number on the card. Voice-matching will be used to ensure security._

_Superhero activity may be illegal, but the supers are not gone, Psycwave._ You're _still here, and you can still do great things. Or...you can rot away in boredom, living a peaceful,_ complacent _civilian life. Your choice._

_We will give you 24 hours to respond. Think about it._

Mirage knew it was compelling, but the script had not yet been tested; Psycwave was a guinea pig in that respect. Would Dr. Briner-Kühn fall for the ruse, or would her paranoia and suspicion win out?

Mirage watched as the doctor stared at the tablet, which was still on the floor. Mirage had suggested making the tablet self-destruct, but Syndrome believed this would simply “scare the living shit” out of the supers, and perhaps deter them from accepting Mirage’s offer. Mirage wished he’d listened to her, though. It made her worry, having the tablet simply subject to the super’s whims after it was done delivering its message. It was simply more potential evidence against them. Perhaps she’d convince him later. Destroying all evidence was truly was the best course of action.

The doctor stared at the object for quite a long time, unmoving, and Mirage watched her as she did so.

Then, Valentina reached over to her left and picked something up from a nearby table.

Mirage’s car phone trilled, a shrill _b-b-bringgggg_.

She picked it up immediately. “Hello?”

“This is Psycwave,” said the nervous, high voice on the other end. “I just want to know something. How did you people find my house?”

“We are privy to that information, Ms. Psycwave,” Mirage purred. “We are a governmental organization with close ties to the National Supers Agency, after all.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Mirage blinked. Oh, no. That was bad.

“The NSA would’ve told me. I’m still good friends with Rick Dicker. He would’ve told me about this supposed opportunity. I don’t believe you,” the doctor repeated. “I’m going to ask again—where did you get my information? If I don’t like your answer, I’m warning you, I’ll call Dicker immediately.”

Internally, Mirage was growing frantic, but she kept her cool masterfully. “There is no need for such action, Psycwave. Everything I have told you is true. Every word.”

Valentina didn’t respond, but Mirage watched as the doctor came back into view, staring out her living room window—straight at Mirage’s car. With its tinted windows, she would be unable to see the woman inside, but Dr. Briner-Kühn put two and two together just the same. “Are you watching my house?” demanded the super, voice shaking in terror as she disappeared back out of view.

“There is no need to be afraid.” Mirage kept herself level and controlled. “We mean you no harm. If you refuse this offer, you will simply be left alone. Simply say the word. _But_ ,” she said forcefully as the doctor began to speak, “you do not want to refuse.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No. It’s a warning. There will be no punishment from the government if you refuse to help us—that is your right as an American. But you will punish yourself for the rest of your life. Wondering where this opportunity could’ve taken you. Wondering why you gave up the chance to be somebody again—to be a super again. To do good work, to help people. Haven’t you been longing for a chance like this? Haven’t you been aching? Tell me I am wrong, and I’ll put down this phone, right now, with an apology for wasting your time. Just tell me I’m wrong.”

The doctor was silent for so long that Mirage wondered if she’d simply hung up. But then her small voice spoke once again.

“You’re right… I _have_ been aching,” admitted Valentina. “My civilian life is fine, it’s fulfilling enough, but I’ve always wanted _more_ … For the past thirteen years, I’ve wanted more.”

“I know,” said Mirage gently, playing the part of the comforter. “I know.”

“But this… I don’t know about this. I’m a psychic. How can I possibly help you against a battle robot?”

That was the question, and the true answer was: _You can’t._ Mirage did not give the true answer. “Your powers are uniquely suited to assist us,” she lied effortlessly. “If we were to attempt to disarm the robot ourselves, our efforts would—without question—result in its destruction. We have no other method of pacifying it. But you, Psycwave, you _can_. We don’t want the machine destroyed; as I said, it’s a significant investment. That’s where you come in. Since the robot is an artificial intelligence, you can use your abilities on its ‘mind,’ as it were. You can use your powers of paralysis to pacify the robot for a few minutes—enough time to flip the deactivation switch in the robot’s ‘brain,’ or core, which will cause it to peacefully shut down without being harmed. At least, that is the strategy we have envisioned for you. If you wish to tackle the situation another way, be my guest; we’d love to hear your ideas.”

None of this was true. Mirage actually had no clue in hell whether Psycwave’s powers would work on an artificial robot, and there was no “deactivation switch” inside the Omnidroid’s core; rather, its functions could be remotely controlled by Syndrome. Still, she thought it sounded convincing.

She was right.

Evidently, the temptation won out. Though hesitantly, Dr. Briner-Kühn said, “I’d like to help you, Ms. Mirage. I’d like to work as a super again, for you.”

Mirage waited for the ‘but.’

There was no ‘but.’

Hmm. Interesting.

Like Universal Man, Psycwave had kept her costume—and in good condition—all these years. She donned it again for the trip to Nomanisan Island, and _unlike_ Universal Man, her costume still fit her body very well. She wore a lilac skintight suit with a yellow belt, darker purple gloves, and a dark purple mask, with an atomic insignia on the chest. However, the woman seemed ill-at-ease in her own skin, picking at the costume, snapping her gloves onto her skin, and generally fidgeting nervously for the entire plane journey to the island where she would die.

Maybe she _sensed_ she was about to perish. She did have limited powers of foresight, after all. Maybe a vague bad feeling was bothering her, needling at her to get the hell out.

Or maybe she was just paranoid. In any case, since the very moment she boarded the automated jet, Psycwave had been doomed.

On one area of the large aircraft, Mirage sat down on one side of a large holographic grid; Psycwave sat on the other, still fidgeting restlessly.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve done any hero work,” the heroine abruptly stated. “I’m not sure…”

Mirage cut her off with a laugh. “I understand your self-doubt. To an extent,” she said gently. “But try not to worry. We chose you for a reason, and we don’t believe we made a mistake.”

Despite herself, Psycwave smiled slightly and glowed with suppressed pride. “Well, if you folks believe in me… I guess I should start believing in myself again.”

Oh, you _are_ a sucker.

Mirage returned her smile and began her presentation, something which she hadn’t given Universal Man, but which she and Syndrome had agreed would be a good idea for the next time around. She reiterated the information she had previously given Psycwave, all while the holographic display showed images of the island and of the Omnidroid’s blueprints; she told Psycwave about the machine’s parameters, its capabilities. This time, all the information Mirage gave was true.

“…and the machine’s particular defensive capabilities mean that, in order to confront it, you will need to drop from a height of 5,000 feet,” Mirage informed her target.

Psycwave’s eyes widened. “Drop… from…?”

“Oh, are you afraid of heights?” Mirage quietly laughed. “Don’t worry. Your pod will be perfectly safe and comfortable.”

“Buh-buh-but…” Psycwave stuttered, then fell silent. “I’m sorry,” she finally muttered. “High places have always been an issue for me. I’ll rein myself in.”

 _Heights will be the very least of your problems today_. “I understand. We’ve all got our phobias. And don’t worry—this mission does not hinge on heights.”

Mirage felt sorry for Psycwave; she couldn’t deny that. This weak, poor woman. This paranoid woman. This supposed super who couldn’t even handle _heights_.

The Omnidroid would make quick work of her. Quick work indeed.

Mirage wondered if her doubts would fade away when they began targeting the big fish, what Syndrome called “ _real_ supers.” She didn’t think so. Perhaps her questions would shift from _Is it wrong to murder this superhero in cold blood?_ to: _If this superhero lives through today, will they tell the police about us?_

She had few doubts over whether Psycwave would survive to the end of today, though. She knew the answer very well.

As Mirage and one of Syndrome’s faceless goons loaded Psycwave into the high-tech pod that would send her down to the island’s surface, Mirage could see that the super was beginning to panic. Even though she was lying down in the pod, her knee bounced and twitched, her hand silently knocking against the metal underneath her body.

“Are you all right?” Mirage asked, leaning against the tinted screen that separated them. “Second thoughts?” Not that anything could be done about them now, anyhow.

“I—I just—I have a bad feeling.” The woman’s voice—tiny and computerized as it was filtered through the screen between them—was choked, apparently trying not to cry in her fear. Mirage knew that for someone with Psycwave’s future-seeing abilities, a “bad feeling” could mean life or death. In this case, the latter.

“It’s the heights,” Mirage soothed her. “You can do it. We have faith in you. Remember, we chose you for a reason. _Remember_ that, Valentina.”

Her reassurances apparently worked, for Psycwave’s face steeled with determination. “I’ll remember.”

“Yes,” Mirage said kindly. “Please do.”

With that, the pod shot off, turning into a tiny metallic speck as it hurtled toward the lush jungled surface of Nomanisan Island.

When Mirage joined Syndrome in his observation room, he barely acknowledged her. His eyes were fixed on the screen, scowling in disappointment. “Can you believe this? Shit.”

Mirage took her place standing beside him. On the screen, Psycwave was displayed, leaning against a tree in the jungle with her face buried in her hands. She was evidently sobbing, judging by the great heaving of her thin shoulders.

“It’s her powers,” guessed Mirage.

“Yeah, I thought the same. Her abilities are telling her she’s about to die. Fuck, I’d have a breakdown, too. Can’t blame her. But, I mean, this is boring as _shit_.”

“And where is the Omnidroid?”

He shrugged. “I’m not monitoring its location right now.” Her boss grinned, displaying two rows of badly-misaligned teeth. “I want it to be as big a surprise for _us_ as it is for _her_.”

“That sounds delightful,” Mirage murmured, thinking the opposite.

“That sarcasm, sweetheart? Come on, don’t all the best villains use the element of surprise?”

“Yes. I simply don’t wish to jump through the ceiling.”

“Don’t like surprises?”

“I could live without them.”

He considered her for a moment, then said, “Alright, here’s what we’ll do. You turn away from the screen. I’ll tell you when it happens. Deal?”

“How considerate,” she said mildly. That wasn’t sarcasm: she was genuinely surprised by Syndrome’s consideration. Usually, he cared nothing for others’ feelings.

“C’mon, I don’t want you to jump through my ceiling, either. Then I gotta pay to replace the ceiling, and if you know me, you know I’m frugal.”

She stifled a laugh at that. Syndrome was all about extravagance, all the time. “It’s a deal,” she said, and turned away from the sobbing image of Psycwave.

A few minutes passed before Syndrome said, “Hey, Mirage. Take a look.”

She looked.

“Oh, no,” she said in dismay, despite herself. “It happened _that_ fast?”

“Five seconds flat. No pun intended.”

The pun was that Psycwave had been literally crushed against a rock wall by the Omnidroid’s pincers, and what remained of her was, indeed, quite flat. It was a gory scene, and Mirage only looked for a few seconds before turning her face away. Gore wasn’t her style; she preferred a clean death, a sniper’s bullet or poison in the wine. Not like this.

Her employer looked disappointed, frowning and stroking his chin. “Just like the last one, the Omnidroid won’t learn a damn thing from this. But I guess that’s alright. There’s one less so-called super in the world, and that’s what matters, huh, Mirage?”

“Indeed,” she said. “That is what matters.”

The toucan camera did a close-up of Psycwave’s head—which remained relatively intact—and Mirage saw tears still on the super’s face. She was slightly proud of herself that the sight of those tears only caused a _small_ wave of guilt and dread to run through her.

Mirage anticipated Syndrome’s next request. “Uh, babe, could you—?”

“Already on it.” She had detached her walkie-talkie from her waist and spoke clearly into its speaker. “All units, please head to the northwest sector of the island, near the rock face. Retrieve the body you find there and bring it to Syndrome’s study for analysis.” She paused, then delicately stressed, “And please bring _all_ portions of the body, as many as you can retrieve, within reason.”

“Excellent,” Syndrome smiled as she replaced the walkie-talkie at her waist.

“What info, exactly, do you hope to find from the corpse?” She hadn’t asked that question with Universal Man. She wasn’t sure she’d wanted to know the answer. Now, however, her curiosity outweighed her disgust.

Syndrome shrugged. “I honestly don’t know, Mirage. I don’t know. I just wanna take a look. See what I can see, you know?”

For some reason, the words chilled her. And Mirage was not easily chilled.


	4. IV: Venidero (Everseer)

Mirage had lived a glamorous life. Her chosen line of work—espionage, seduction, spying, a gatherer of information by any possible means—necessitated it. She’d stayed in the world’s most expensive hotels, penthouse suites with silken sheets and draped diamonds hanging in place of curtains. She’d worn dresses and pantsuits by the world’s most in-demand designers, and she’d been lusted after by some of the world’s most powerful men; she’d had gifts of platinum, sapphire and onyx rained upon her, among other precious metals and jewels of all types and colors. Once, she had worn a pearl-and-diamond necklace worth a cool ten million liras, and another time, she had driven a luxurious vehicle worth several times that amount.

She had held guns that cost more than the average citizen’s yearly salary. She had used those guns.

Despite all this excess, she was pretty sure of one thing: living on Syndrome’s Nomanisan Island was possibly the nicest gig she’d ever managed to snag.

Well, that was perhaps unfairly crude: it wasn’t a “gig,” it was a career, and she hadn’t “snagged” it, she had earned it through a rigorous—and, at times, somewhat frightening—interview process. But nonetheless, it was a privilege to live on the opulent island. In her mind, she sometimes called it the land of milk and honey.

And lava. Don’t forget lava.

Discounting its settlements, Nomanisan was beautiful enough on its own. The jungle was lush and verdant, and the island was rich in scenic waterfalls, beautiful natural pools, hot springs, snorkeling opportunities, wildlife spotting, and, of course, gorgeous weather. The volcano overlooked all, inactive but menacing, its power terrifying but seductive, providing warmth and beauty.

When Mirage was feeling lazy, she could visit one of the island’s many saunas or hot tubs. Nomanisan had at least three combination gymnasiums and recreation centers, in order to service Syndrome’s numerous employees and guards. Mirage, however, would have balked at visiting one of these _public_ areas: not because she was a snob, but because—though she knew most would balk at the idea of harassing Syndrome’s right-hand woman—she was still somewhat afraid of being leered at. And she didn’t trust Syndrome’s hired goons. _He_ may trust them (to an extent), but she had other fears.

So instead, Mirage made use of her own private pool, gym and sauna, located steps down the hall from her bedroom. The workout equipment was top-of-the-line, and Mirage kept herself quite fit; the sauna was magical; and the pool was heated, as was most everything on the island, by the volcano’s natural geothermal heat, giving it delightful warm waters. 

If she grew bored of that, she could visit Syndrome’s hotel. The island had a large, luxurious five-star hotel, fully staffed, catering to Syndrome’s important visitors—and, when Mirage felt like it, catering to her as well. It was built in the side of the volcano, as were many of Syndrome’s amenities, and its balconies provided stunning jungle views.

On top of that, the hotel had a huge pool built into a large platform, extending out from the fourteenth floor. The pool was sculpted entirely of a clear glass-like material—but stronger than glass, far stronger—that Syndrome himself had invented, so that, while you swam, it felt like you were flying high above the jungle canopy below. Like most everything else, the pool was geothermally heated. Mirage liked to sarcastically call this pool the sexiest thing on the island. Which… in truth, it _was_.

Right now, it was midday on a Saturday, bright and sunny, and Mirage lounged with her elbows up on the side of the pool and the rest of her floating in the water, her legs lazily floating with the artificial current. Sunglasses on, and wearing a pearl-white swimsuit, she reached to a bowl of fruit that sat poolside nearby her, plucking a grape and popping it into her mouth, enjoying the burst of sweetness. Everything she ate was grown right on the island, tended to by live-in farmers hired directly by Syndrome. Energy on Nomanisan was provided by his innovative inventions, too. They were entirely self-sustaining.

 _Almost_ entirely. For Syndrome’s riches had to come from somewhere, and without his enterprises—both the more upstanding ventures, and the less-so—they would not have been able to pay for all this extravagance.

But Syndrome _did_ have enterprises, he _did_ have riches, and they _did_ live extravagantly. And for the most part, they did sustain themselves. Self-provided electricity, food, water…

Mirage took another grape in her mouth, testing its smooth, cool shape against her tongue before puncturing its skin with her teeth and feeling the acidic flavor flood her mouth. The island was rich in fertile volcanic soil, and Mirage had to admit, the extra minerals in the earth did make a difference. The fruit and vegetables here were among the most succulent she’d ever tasted. And she could have her fill, always.

Yes indeed. This was heaven.

And sometimes, also, it was hell.

A sudden voice interrupted her laziness. “Working hard, or hardly working?”

She heard the smirk in her boss’s voice, and didn’t bother opening her eyes. “Neither,” she murmured. “Not working at all.”

Footsteps approached. “I don’t blame ya. This place is really something else, huh? If I could, I’d just chill out here, twenty-four-seven-three-sixty-five. Wouldn’t work a damn day for the rest of my life.”

“You could do that, if you wanted. You have the funds by now,” she pointed out. “You could easily sell your entire company and retire.”

He chuckled, and from the rustling and splashing next to her, she believed he had sat down on the edge of the pool beside her, dangling his stumpy legs in the warm water. “Yeah, I could. I guess. But I’ve still got so much more to do.”

“Like what?” she asked, amused.

“Wanna grape?”

She opened her eyes, curved an eyebrow. “All right…”

A hand reached down in front of her face, and she opened her mouth obediently. In went the grape. Luckily, Syndrome’s fingers didn’t linger for any untoward amount of time.

The hand was gloveless, she noted with surprise as she chewed her food. Usually Syndrome wore his standard outfit, his supervillain getup: black suit with white boots and gloves, and a white “S” curving down the chest. If not, he would wear a regular suit, black and sharp, with a red tie. Today, however, he wore palm tree-patterned swim trunks.

“Is it casual Saturday around here?” she asked.

“What’s that supposta mean?”

“I mean, you don’t usually wear…” She trailed off.

“Hey, everybody’s gotta have fun sometimes, sweetheart. I work too goddamn hard.”

She couldn’t disagree with that. On the surface, Syndrome’s carefree attitude and devil-may-care demeanor seemed to indicate he might be the type who was lazy and unfocused, but in reality, he was laser-focused at all times, constantly on the job, constantly thinking and plotting and having meetings with important men in suits. And Mirage was always there to record those meetings.

“Anyway. You asked what more I’ve got to do.”

“I _did_ ask that.”

“Yeah, well, I think you know the answer.”

“Kronos,” she murmured.

“Yup. Kronos is why I can’t retire. Kronos is _everything_. And on top of that, I don’t think this brain is ever going to stop working. I’m always going to be innovating and inventing and coming up with shit that nobody else could ever dream of, and I can’t deny that to the world just because I’m lazy and I wanna lounge around on an island all day.”

He thought he was God’s gift to humanity. Perhaps he _was_ , too.

“Speaking of Kronos. You got any more targets in mind?”

“I was going to ask the same of you.”

“You first.” Syndrome took a crunchy bite of apple, and spoke through the mealy mouthful. “Who were you thinking?”

“I don’t have his file on hand, but I _did_ have a target in mind… Everseer.”

“Everseer? Really?” Syndrome sounded underwhelmed. “He’s got psychic powers just like that last chick we did, uh…” He snapped his fingers.

“Psycwave.”

“Psycwave. I almost had it. Yeah, her. Look, Mirage, can we get a little variety around here? Maybe choose a super with a little more… uh, je-ne-sais-quoi? Pizzazz?”

She turned toward him, pushing her sunglasses down so that he could see her wry amber eyes. “I understand you’re bored, but remember, the Omnidroid has to learn and improve before it can take on a super with any kind of real power. That was _your_ stipulation, I seem to recall.”

The ginger frowned in disappointment, but he was no idiot, and she knew he would listen to his intellect before he bowed to his more childlike instincts. That is, the instinct to target a cool, powerful super, rather than sticking with the little guys.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re right. Look, I trust you. If you think we should do Everseer next, then fine. We’ll do him. He was on my shortlist, anyway.” He grinned hammily. “Great minds think alike.”

“Indeed.” She pushed her sunglasses back up in front of her eyes, and leaned her head back, soaking up the sun’s beautiful rays.

“Hey, uh, listen, Mirage…”

“Mmm-hmm?”

“That swimsuit? Killer. Absolutely fucking _killer_. Y’know, if you wore shit like that around the office all the time, I wouldn’t complain.”

Had Syndrome never seen her in a bathing suit before? She knew he’d seen her legs, at the very least, what with the seductive slit-to-the-thigh dresses and tiny pencil skirts she tended to wear to social events. A few months ago, the “compliment” would’ve made her skin crawl. Now, though, she just made an eye-roll under her glasses. Syndrome was an odd balance between “serial murderer to be feared; exercise caution” and “little brother whose antics are on the cusp of being annoying.”

“If I wore _shit like that_ around the office all the time, no one would get any work done,” she said drolly to her boss. Must stay aloof at all times.

“Heh. Ain’t that the truth.”

She closed her eyes again, but she felt her boss’s own eyes on her breasts. Her legs. Every inch of exposed tan skin, smoother than marble, a million times softer.

How long could she avoid this?

How long would she _want_ to avoid this?

“Don’t know about you, but I’m goin’ for a swim.” True to his word, she heard a loud splash, and water droplets rained onto her, causing her to scrunch her face up. Another splash and Syndrome called, “Care to join me?”

“I think I’ll just watch you for now.”

Her boss did not protest, simply kept swimming, doing laps, ducking under the water, tossing a beach ball around. She wondered if he meant to impress her with his antics, but most of the time she kept her eyes closed, enjoying the heat of the sun beating down onto her body.

It had been a month and she couldn’t get the image of Psycwave’s tears out of her head.

Not that she would ever admit that to Syndrome.

Everseer was a breeze. So much so that Mirage almost wondered why she’d ever had doubts.

During her research into Psycwave, Mirage had discovered that Dr. Valentina Briner-Kühn had written a book called _Shut Up! Quieting Your Inner Voice_. It was self-help rubbish—Mirage didn’t subscribe to that stuff—but she was more interested to learn that the book had a co-author, Dr. Ed Campbell, a fellow psychologist. Remembering that the superhero Psycwave had been a member of a superhero team, the Phantasmics, alongside Everseer, Mirage wondered if Dr. Campbell could perhaps be more than he appeared.

Her hunch paid off. Within days of starting her investigation, she learned that Campbell and Everseer were one and the same.

She tracked him in much the same way she had done Psycwave, illicitly entering a courthouse and searching through dusty files until her efforts paid off. He lived in Arizona now, four miles outside of Phoenix. In the blistering sun, Mirage trailed Dr. Campbell for three days, observing his comings and goings. She had not stalked Psycwave in this manner, but Syndrome had asked her to change up her routine for this particular mark: learn more about him before she struck, this time. She thought that was quite a good idea.

But in this case, there was not much to learn. She hoped Campbell might actually do something _interesting_ whilst she was trailing him—moonlighting hero work, for example—but he didn’t. He went to work, he came home. He went to work, he came home. The same routine each and every day. He never went out, didn’t drink, didn’t have friends. In short, he was extremely boring. Syndrome would hate him.

On the third day, Mirage had had enough.

She switched things up. Instead of receiving the package slipped under his door, Dr. Campbell found the mysterious yellow package on top of his desk in his personal office, where Mirage had slipped in and out like a ghost mere minutes before, while her target was using the restroom.

From a small, mostly-unused break room located right beside the doctor’s office, Mirage held her binoculars to her eyes, switched them to thermal mode, and watched him through the walls. (Anyone who came into the break room at that moment would, no doubt, be intrigued and confused by the sight of a strange woman staring at a blank wall with a pair of binoculars.)

Dr. Ed Campbell picked up the package, examining it. Out slid the tablet. Mirage expected the super to jump in shock or fright as the tablet began scanning the room for security issues, but he simply remained still, as if unsurprised.

She smiled slightly as she faintly heard her own voice through the walls, explaining matters to him.

_Hello, Everseer._

_Yes, we know who you are._

Dr. Campbell didn’t call her right away. She guessed he did not want to use his office phone for such matters. Instead, he waited until he reached his small and modest home, which Mirage knew because she had trailed him there.

At 5:46 pm, Mirage received a call.

“Hello?”

“It’s me, Everseer.” He sounded calm, his voice as deep and gravelly as a back road. She found that quality quite attractive, to be honest. His appearance, not so much—his chin was so huge, it dwarfed the rest of his features, and his body was rather rotund. But his voice was attractive indeed.

“Hello, Everseer,” she greeted him softly. “You received my message?”

“I did. And I much appreciate your attention.”

He was much calmer than Psycwave, and that was somewhat of a blessing. Mirage certainly didn’t feel like dealing with another hysteric. That being said, his calmness did unnerve her.

Everseer immediately agreed to help with the mission—not with enthusiasm, but not reluctantly, either; it did not take much convincing or cajoling on Mirage’s part. It almost felt like he’d been expecting all this. Like he’d been waiting for Mirage’s call. Which rather frightened her, honestly.

From her preliminary research into Everseer, Mirage had learned about his powers: enhanced vision, mind-reading, and, supposedly, seeing the future. She hadn’t put much stock into that last supposed power, though. Why? Because no one else did. Mirage had read several scathing interviews and comments about Everseer’s powers, where multiple scholars and fellow supers expressed their belief that his clairvoyance was nothing but fraud.

But seeing his almost supernatural calmness… the tranquil way with which Everseer boarded the automated jet and settled into his seat, seeming a little troubled but not whatsoever surprised, as though he’d been expecting this all along… Mirage wondered to herself: were the scoffers wrong?

Still. His other powers, while verified to be true, were certainly nothing that would trouble the Omnidroid; Mirage had little doubt that Everseer would fall just as quickly as his two colleagues before him.

Everseer’s costume consisted of a long dark green cape, green cowl-like mask with silver arrow between the eyes, lighter green on the chest with a silver ring like an eye, silver gloves, and silver boots. Where his cape connected around his neck, there was a small medallion shaped like an eye, and a matching eye on the front of each of his boots. She supposed the eye represented his all-seeing mind.

Of course, they had needed to take special precautious with this mind-reading super, lest he catch wind of how Mirage and Syndrome planned to tear him apart. Mirage wore a small computer chip hidden behind her ear, specially-designed by Syndrome to block Everseer’s mental patterns. Syndrome told her that some people were immune to the super’s powers anyway, so Everseer would suspect nothing.

Mirage had at least somewhat enjoyed the company of her last two targets, which had made it difficult to see them die. Everseer was different: she’d feel bad watching him perish because she knew deep down that murdering him was inherently evil, _not_ because she liked him. During their plane ride, while they sat on opposite sides of the holographic grid, he continuously knocked his foot against the floor. Again. And again. And again. _Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap_ …

Mirage tried to ignore it.

Finally, she gave up.

“Could you stop that?” she asked politely, adding a small laugh, so that he wouldn’t be too offended. “If you don’t mind.”

“I apologize.” He stopped.

She continued explaining the Omnidroid’s parameters and functions to him, but soon, it resumed: _tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap—_

Then it stopped. She breathed an internal sigh of relief.

Then it started again, with the _other_ foot. _Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap_.

She laughed again, this time more tightly than before. “Please. Stop. You’re wearing down my sanity, and besides, this information is important.”

“I can’t stop now,” Everseer explained. “I tapped with my left foot forty times. Now I have to tap with my right foot forty times. Please, I won’t recover for the whole night if I don’t.”

Oh, yes. Mirage vaguely recalled skimming over a line about about Everseer’s OCD in his file; she’d just forgotten. Was it some type of cosmic rule that psychologists had to be neurotic?

With gritted teeth and a fake smile, she endured the tapping.

Before she loaded him into his pod, she tried to shake his hand. Everseer refused, looking at her outstretched appendage as though it were the most disgusting pile of festering dirt he’d ever laid eyes on.

Oh. Germaphobe, right. She’d forgotten that too. Delightful fellow at large, really.

When he had been stuffed into his pod—which took several tries, due to his prodigious weight—Mirage spoke through the dark screen between them. “Are you ready, Everseer?”

He wore an odd expression: a cocktail between fear, determination and acceptance. “It doesn’t make a difference if I’m not,” he said.

She quirked an eyebrow. “Well, I suppose not…”

He pursed his lips together. “Let’s not fool ourselves. I know there’s no avoiding this, Ms. Mirage. I’ve always known. I knew you would come to me, and when you did, I knew I would go.”

“Whatever do you mean?” she asked, laughing lightly as though he were being silly, but inside, her heart was thrumming with apprehension.

“I’m going to die today,” he said, and then the pod shot off towards the island, cutting off the rest of his words.

Oh.

Not so boring, after all.

“He knew all along,” Mirage said as she entered the observation room, not wasting time on a greeting.

Syndrome—wearing his typical white and black “villain” suit, all thoughts of swim trunks forgotten—turned toward her. “Huh?”

“Everseer. He’s truly a clairvoyant.”

“Huh?” Syndrome half-smiled, stroking his chin. “Interesting… So he _knows_ he’s doomed?”

“I think so. Yes. Based on what he said to me, anyhow.”

“So why the hell’d he come here, anyway? Why would he come here just to die?”

Mirage sat down on a minimalist metal chair that glimmered dimly in the dark, staring at Everseer as he made his way through the jungle on the screen. “I guess some people just don’t want to challenge fate,” she surmised softly, reaching up and gently detaching the chip that was attached behind her ear with a skin-safe adhesive.

Syndrome pointed to a small monitor on the wall to the left of the larger screen. It showed a grid-patterned version of Nomanisan Island, with two blinking dots on its surface, both in the northwest sector, one slightly more to the south of the other. “The Omnidroid is there, sweetheart. Thought you might not enjoy any more surprises. When it goes after him, we’ll know.”

“Thank you. I appreciate your consideration.”

Syndrome’s smile faded into something more menacing, and with palms balanced on a table in front of him, he leaned closer toward the screen; its glow turned his face green. “Let’s see the fucker psych his way out of the Omnidroid’s pincers.”

“I don’t know whether he’ll even try to escape,” Mirage pointed out. “After all, he sees the future…”

Her boss’s smile widened. “Oh, he’ll try to escape. Hell yeah, he will. Doesn’t matter if he knows he’s gonna die. In the end, every living thing wants to live. And every living thing will fight for its chance. It’s just nature, babe. Just nature.”

And, as with many things, Syndrome was right.

Mirage watched as the dots on the monitor moved closer to each other. On the larger screen, Everseer pushed past lush green fern leaves and stared up at huge vertigo-inducing trees, stumbling his way through the jungle.

On its two wheels, the Omnidroid came roaring through the forest. Everseer heard it long before he saw it, breaking into a desperate run.

“That’s the thing about the Omnidroid. Not the most subtle machine on the planet,” Syndrome noted as the toucan camera took wing, following the fleeing superhero. “Next time, I’ll make it quieter.”

No matter how fast a super could run—unless said super was endowed with speed powers—the Omnidroid could go faster. It had clocked at 100 miles per hour; it was light and efficient, but deadly as a razor. It caught up to Everseer within moments. When it first slashed at him, the psychic super was able to leap to the side just in time; the machine’s pincers slashed a tree instead, leaving a series of deep grooves in its bark, scars that would never fade away.

“He _is_ a clairvoyant,” Mirage murmured as she watched the fight ensue. Everseer lasted longer than the unfortunate Universal Man, and _far_ longer than his co-author, Psycwave. Each blow the Omnidroid struck, Everseer managed to evade. He foresaw them, and took appropriate measures.

“Wonder what that must be like?” Syndrome mused, one hand kneading the table in front of him, perhaps unconsciously. “To see everything that’s gonna happen to you? Is it like having a bunch of TV screens in your head? ’Cuz I think I would hate that.”

“Did he never describe his powers in an interview, or something like that?” Mirage inquired. Usually Syndrome was so knowledgeable about these matters.

“Nah. Everseer was always a pretty secretive guy, and he wasn’t much of a talker. I’d like to ask him…” Syndrome lifted his shoulders. “Eh, too late now.”

But then, Syndrome leaned across the table in intense interest, eyes wide like a child’s. “Holy shit, Mirage. Holy _shit_. It’s _learning_.”

Mirage realized that Syndrome was correct. Previously, the Omnidroid had only been aiming with one pincer at a time, allowing Everseer to sideswipe its attacks. But now, the machine was using _two_ pincers at once, one from either direction, and this, Everseer could not so easily avoid. He managed to barely evade one of these attacks. The next time, he leapt backwards and survived, but sustained a deep cut on his arm and landed hard on his back. The third time, he was out of luck altogether.

Another image that would be burnt into Mirage’s brain, much like Psycwave’s tears: Everseer’s face as the Omnidroid aimed at him for the final time. Sadness, but acceptance.

Mirage briefly wondered if _she_ would like to know the moment she would die. She quickly decided that she would not.

Everseer was skewered. The Omnidroid struck him and then drew back, unsheathing its claws from his chest like knives from a knife block. But its pincers were too large for a human body, and they did far more damage than was needed; his entire ribcage and torso was basically crushed, gory red ribbons of flesh and entrails dangling from the Omnidroid’s claws as it withdrew. The super’s head lolled, eyes wide and sightless.

“You know what I hate most about this shit? That we destroy all these beautiful costumes.” Syndrome was shaking his head, and he actually looked a little distressed. “I mean, look at that thing! Shredded. It’s such a damn waste. Maybe we should make ’em wear replicas from now on, Mirage. Keep the real thing safe in our archives.”

She looked at Syndrome as he spoke, glad for an excuse to tear her eyes from the image on screen. “Like a serial killer’s memento?” she asked dryly.

“No.” He seemed taken aback. “Not like a serial—I mean, c’mon, Mirage, this is _different_.”

“That is how the authorities will see it. If we’re caught, that is.”

“Yeah… Maybe you’re right. But still. All those iconic costumes, destroyed. In my opinion, it’s a shame.”

“It _is_ a shame,” she said, trying her best not to look at what remained of the deceased hero.


	5. V: Interlude

It was inevitable. Mirage would have had to be an idiot not to know that. And Mirage was not an idiot.

It was not inevitable because of her burning lust for Syndrome: quite the opposite. Rather, she knew it could not be avoided because she feared him. Syndrome had never shown any outright signs of aggression toward her, but she was still hyperaware that, if she displeased him in any way at any time, he was perfectly capable of ruining her, and he would. He _would_.

It was just a question of _how_ he would ruin her. Would he display her secrets for the authorities to gawk over? Or would he have her “disappear,” perhaps fashioned into an hors d’oeuvre by his Omnidroid’s claws, or, more subtly, poisoned? Would her body become compost, fertilizing the soil of Nomanisan?

The point: Syndrome had power over Mirage, loathe as she was to admit it. And refusing his sexual advances would not be advisable. The sexual advances would come; she was sure of it. That, too, was inevitable.

Good thing she was not above preserving her life and well-being by means of her cunt. On the contrary, she had done so before ever meeting Syndrome, and she’d likely do it again after him.

She had seen the way her boss looked at her. He was not a subtle man. Well, in some ways he was. But not in that manner. His eyes were quick and roving like mice, and she felt them like mice’s little feet crawling across her cleavage and her long, long legs. It was that way from the very beginning, from the start of her first job interview with him, up until now, when she had been working under him for the better part of one year. His eyes still roved, with more hunger than before.

She was mildly surprised at the fact that Syndrome had, in fact, _not_ made any outright advances. Not yet. He allowed his eyes to do the talking, and they said enough. They said he wanted her. Of course he did. Every man wanted her. Every _woman_ wanted her, for god’s sake.

But the advances would come.

And Mirage was prepared.

Syndrome controlled everything on Nomanisan Island; nothing moved out of place without his knowledge and approval, and if it did, the ones responsible were taken to task. He controlled the movements of his guards, farmers, stewards, janitors, maintenance men, tech guys, the receptionists and cleaners at his hotel, hired goons, and all else who worked and lived on his island. He controlled all development on the island; not one single brick was laid without his consent. He even controlled—though not outright—what everyone said, because though he was generally a fair taskmaster, no one would dare speak out of line with him listening.

They had all, including Mirage, seen the way Syndrome punished wrongdoers. Nobody wanted a piece of _that_ particular pie.

She remembered one example, where one of Syndrome’s masked guards had been lingering in a hallway with another guard, laughing and cruelly mocking Syndrome’s new flame-like hairstyle. He was unaware that Syndrome, coincidentally, was observing the video monitoring system at that very moment, and heard each word. What followed was quite unpleasant, and Mirage bore witness to every moment of it. In the end, what remained of the guard ended up in Syndrome’s personal vegetable garden, fertilizing his cucumber plants.

Mirage later tasted one of said cucumbers, at Syndrome’s insistence. It was delicious.

The master of the island, Syndrome controlled everything, each movement, each development, each word out of each underling’s mouth. His personal assistant included—especially her, for she spent most of her time at his side, and she had extra reason to be careful with her tongue.

But Mirage had resolutions. She resolved that if Syndrome ever brought her into his bed, he would not be controlling what would happen there. That would be one arena in which Mirage would have complete autonomy. She would dictate the proceedings. She would take the reins. If it had to happen, it would happen at her pleasure, and _for_ her pleasure.

It didn’t hurt that she _highly_ suspected that Syndrome was the kind of man who would very much appreciate, and even encourage, this sort of thing. When the inevitable happened, this is how it would happen: with her boss begging at her feet like a dog.

She hoped.

One cool summer’s night—a useless descriptor, for every night was summer on Nomanisan Island—Mirage was feeling restless and could not sleep. In the dark, she left her bedroom dressed in a grey silk robe and padded down the hall to her personal gym. There, she discarded her robe before the Olympic-sized swimming pool. She hoped its warmth and gentle currents would ease her jumping nerves.

She was nude. There was no point in _not_ being nude. Mirage had an entire wing of the island’s eastern complex to herself—though she only used two rooms, the bedroom and the gymnasium—and no one would bother her tonight.

Mirage took a step onto the pool’s stairs leading down into the temperate waters, feeling the comforting heat rush over the skin of her foot. She descended down, down. To her right, the poolside tiles gave way to an area filled with top-of-the-line gym equipment; to her left, the wall was entirely glass, giving a gorgeous view to the dark jungle below. Everything was peaceful and quiet, the only sound the sloshing of the pool water as it gave way to Mirage’s body. It was perhaps midnight. She hadn’t been keeping track of the time.

 _Murderer_. The word intruded into her brain sharply, like the sudden slash of a knife. It had been wont to do that, lately. She pushed it away with annoyance. She had killed before. Why did her brain only _now_ decide to torment her about it?

 _Because you have now killed innocents, lured them like a spider into a honeyed trap—innocent people who did nothing wrong_ , her mind quietly whispered to her.

She pushed that thought away, too. Damn thoughts. Why couldn’t she just have an empty brain for once in her life? Just a clear head, a mind that didn’t torment her with constant whirrings and workings?

The gory deaths that she and Syndrome had wrought—they often pushed their way into her mind, too, nowadays. Unwelcome visitors from the past, they strangled her heart. The crushed Psycwave’s tears. Universal Man, torn uncleanly in two. Everseer, skewered into pieces…

These images haunted her and haunted her badly. Relentlessly.

Earlier in the night, Mirage’s go-to distraction—reading, gently turning the pages of well-loved books and enjoying the swish and rustle of paper on paper—had not been effective. Now, because she was desperate, she went to her _second_ go-to distraction. Skin on skin.

She sat on the third step down, her shoulders and half of her torso protruding from the water. Leaning back against the step behind her, she shifted herself accordingly, trying to get comfortable; the water made small noises against her body. Her left hand snaked down between her legs.

Mirage knew how her body worked; she could get herself off more efficiently—and intensely—than any man. Within minutes she was groaning, her low noises echoing against the surface of the water. She twisted, barely noticed the discomfort of her back grinding against the step behind her. She let out a louder noise, tried to stifle herself—

Universal Man intruded into her head yet again, and just as she ripped her hand away from her cunt and opened her mouth to loudly curse in frustration, she heard something. Her entire body immediately froze in place, stock-still, as she scanned the room, looking for whatever had made the small noise.

She turned around, kneeling on the step.

Syndrome was just behind her, leaning against the rustic wooden door that led to the sauna. Her boss looked intensely hungry.

“Were you—?”

“Watching you? Yeah. _Christ_ , you put on a show. All that writhing… Was that all for me?”

 _No, it wasn’t all for you, you goddamn idiot, it was for_ me, _I didn’t even know you were_ there—

“No,” she said smoothly, trying to mask her disgust.

“That’s a _realllllll_ pity.” He pushed himself off of the sauna door and sauntered toward her, very slowly. Like a puma stalking its prey.

Mirage was not prey.

Not even close.

She consciously stifled her anger and annoyance and, deeper down, her fear and guilt over everything she’d done. That could wait. Right now, the inevitable was staring her in the face, and she could be a victim, or she could be a huntress.

In the grand scheme of things, Syndrome was… well, she had taken quite some time to warm up to him, but the young man was not so bad. He was very, very intelligent. His belligerence could be charming at times. His earnest childishness, when it wasn’t being annoying, sometimes managed to be sweet. And, underneath all that—the surface level things that even people who barely knew him could see—Syndrome was _ruthless_. He would get what he wanted, always. At any cost.

No, there were certainly worse men out there. Well, morally and ethically, not really. But, worse men to _fuck_? Yes, there were many of those.

“You want me?” she said clearly, her voice bouncing around the room.

Syndrome looked surprised at her directness—his eyebrows raised—but he responded with directness of his own. “Hell yeah.”

“Then go down the hall. Get in my bedroom. Sit on the bed. Wait for me. I will be there when I feel like showing up. Go now.” She spoke commandingly, evenly; she was in control.

Her boss blinked, and though he seemed inclined to resist, Mirage thought she saw the beginning of a flush in his pale cheeks—the flush of arousal, of total desire. “Hey, you’re not the one in—”

“In charge? I most certainly am. Go now, or you will get nothing.”

He was excited. She could see that clearly, and that made her mouth curve into a half-smile, unbidden. She had read him correctly.

“Okay,” Syndrome said with a shrug, trying to remain casual and smug. He stalked from the gym, his thumping footsteps retreating down the hall.

Mirage took her time, testing her boss’s limits. She lingered in the pool for what felt like twenty minutes, then rose from its depths at a leisurely pace, toweling herself off and squeezing her hair dry. She donned her robe, taking her time, and went down the hall, returning to her bedroom.

Obediently—like the dog she knew he was—Syndrome was sitting on the bed. He was naked except for a pair of boxer briefs; his black and white suit, gloves and boots were strewn on the floor. He grinned at her and started to speak.

She spoke over whatever snarky bullshit her boss was about to spew. “Did I say you could undress?”

“No, but—”

“Let me guess. You thought I would prefer it this way, yes? You thought I would enjoy walking in here and being treated to a visual feast like this?” There was clear sarcasm and contempt in her every word as she deliberately scanned her boss’s body. “You do not presume to know my thoughts. Put your clothes back on.”

Syndrome was silent for a moment, seeming to marvel at the total change in Mirage’s demeanor. She thought, perhaps smugly, that she could see the beginnings of an erection forming under his briefs.

Yes, she had read him _perfectly_.

Being so in control, even though they were barely getting started, was already starting to have an effect on Mirage. She could feel the heat beginning to form in her center. That would be promptly taken care of. She would see to it.

Syndrome had gotten up off the bed and leaned down to collect his things, and was now fumbling with his spandex super suit, trying to pull it on. She watched impassively with every second. On went the suit; on went the gloves and boots, and he attached the cape at the back, as well.

“This okay?” he asked, somewhat more meekly than before.

She thought about saying something along the lines of, “Did I say you could speak?” Ultimately, she decided against it. She didn’t want him feeling too silenced. A little banter would do them both good.

“That is an improvement,” she said dryly.

“Now what?”

“Now you sit back down on the bed, the way I told you before.”

Syndrome immediately obeyed, and she reveled in the feeling of telling _him_ what to do, for once. Of course, this was all just artificial, a veneer, a make-believe world they would inhabit for the sake of getting off. But it was a very _nice_ make-believe world.

“Now tell me. What do you want to do?”

“Er, I don’t—”

“Tell me,” she said, taking a step forward toward him, “in vivid detail, what you want to do tonight. When you are finished, I will decide which of your fantasies are good enough to be made real.”

Syndrome blinked a few times, and smiled. “In vivid detail. Damn, okay. I can do that.” He leaned forward. “First, I wanna bend you over this fucking bed.”

“And then what?” she asked impassively, showing no interest. “Remember. In detail.”

“And then I’d get that robe off—”

“You might have a hard time with that,” she said flatly. “It might be more prudent to remove the robe before bending me over the bed. You were saying…?”

“Okay, smart-ass. I’d take the robe off. _Then_ I’d bend you over the bed.”

“Let me guess, and then you would fuck me?”

“I mean… what else, babe?” He looked rather pleased with himself.

“Here’s _what else_. You wish to use me as a sex doll. That is not good enough. Tell me what you would do to get me wet beforehand. And _then_ perhaps we can discuss bending me over the bed.”

To her surprised, Syndrome’s grin turned rather bashful. “Uh… sorry. You’re right. Kind of juvenile of me, huh. It’s not the nineteenth century anymore, we gotta think about the woman now, too. Huh?”

She stared at him hard. “Did I say you could speak of matters other than the ones I have asked you to speak about?”

“No, babe, you didn’t. Um…” He thought hard, staring at the ceiling. “Here’s what I would do. I would lay you down on the bed…”

“And then?”

He shrugged. “Eat you out, I guess.”

A die-hard romantic. How wonderful.

“And then, when you were so fucking wet that you made squelching noises whenever you moved, _then_ I would bend you over the bed. And I’d finger you while I fucked you.”

“With those short arms?” she scoffed. “Do you think you would be able to reach around me?”

“I mean, you’re not exactly a tree trunk, sweetheart.”

That, at least, was true.

“For all your innovation in the world of technology, you’re not the most imaginative in the bedroom, are you,” she stated without emotion. “So here’s what we are going to do. We are going to do everything I say. Nothing will be dictated by you, because you clearly do not have the capabilities to get me off. Or _yourself_ , adequately, for that matter.” She made a ring motion with her index finger. “Turn around and kneel on the bed.”

“What—?”

“Did I say you could protest? Turn. Around.”

Syndrome obeyed. His back to her, the billionaire tech maven kneeled on the bed.

She approached him, and stood silently behind him for two minutes; to his credit, Syndrome did not speak out of turn. When she finally ghosted her hands across his shoulders, she could feel him attempt to suppress a jolt of surprise. She continued that motion, and then ran her hands down his arms. She encircled him, running her slender hands across his chest, just testing. To her immense satisfaction, she felt his rate of heartbeat increase. Of course, it would be an insult to her if it _didn’t_.

Just as flatly as she had spoken everything else, she said, “ _Now_ take off your clothes.”

“While I’m still kneeling…?”

“If you can manage it.”

Trying his best to obey her, Syndrome once again removed his super outfit, peeling away the gloves, the boots and the spandex suit, leaving himself naked except for…

“The briefs, too.”

Accordingly, away they went, tossed to the side.

Nude, Syndrome was not particularly impressive. His dick was of average size, his body of an above-average size, with a tubby stomach and flabby thighs and arms; the skin of his body was even paler than the skin of his face, moon-white and splotchy in places.

But, Mirage had to remind herself, he wasn’t _horrible_. That was what counted.

“Now what?” he asked yet again.

“Lie down. On your stomach.”

Syndrome frowned at her. “Look, sw—”

“If you call me _sweetheart_ one more time, your punishment will be even more severe.” Oh, she enjoyed saying that. Genuinely. “Now do as I said.”

She almost worried Syndrome would rebel against her, would end this charade, but apparently, he was still continuing to enjoy it. He obeyed her, laying face-down on the bed.

“Stay there.” She went over to her closet and opened the doors, rooting through her dresses and outfits until she found what she was looking for: a plastic clothes hanger, without any clothes upon it. It would do.

She approached the bed, hanger in hand.

“Now Syndrome, tell me. Is it morally appropriate to intrude on a lady while she is alone and vulnerable?”

“No,” he said, his mouth muffled against the bedsheets.

She smacked him on the ass with the flat of the clothes hanger. He grunted.

“Is it morally appropriate to watch a lady as she masturbates?”

“N—”

She didn’t wait for his answer, smacking him again and enjoying the sound of plastic on flesh. His grunt was less of pain and more of enjoyment. Yes, she had read him like a _book_.

“Is it morally appropriate to continue watching said lady without alerting her of your presence, and garnering enjoyment from what you see?”

“ _No_ ,” he ground out against the bed as she hit him once again.

“Are you sorry?”

“Yes!”

She smacked him again.

“How sorry are you?”

“I’m sorry…” He actually chuckled at the next strike. She decided to ignore said giggle. Perhaps, if they had another “session” at a later time, and he did something similar, she would test her parameters by punishing him for it. Today, though… today, she would go easier.

“Will you ever do such a thing again?”

“Yes,” he said, giggling again, like a naughty schoolboy with his hand in the cookie jar.

She smacked him far harder with the clothes hanger, causing him to gasp in real pain; a red imprint was left on the milky white flesh of his ass. “I ask you again.”

“Yes,” he repeated. “I’ll do it again.”

“Are you trying to test my limits? Because you will find they are very hard limits.”

“I’m not sorry,” he said, “I’m glad I saw you, and glad I kept watching. Glad as _fuck_. It was a beautiful sight, Mirage. I’m not gonna lie.”

She was silent for a long moment. “If you are truly not sorry for your actions,” she said, “then we can end right here, and you may leave my room, and we can pretend none of this ever happened.”

“No…”

“You don’t want that, _mi amor_?”

“No. I want you.”

“You will have me,” she said, “at _my_ discretion. And if you are to have me, then you will apologize to me for your wrongdoing and accept your rightful punishment. If not, then you can get the fuck out.”

“Okay,” he said, cowed. “Fine.”

She could hear the arousal in the grind of his voice, in the hoarseness. She had him by the balls.

“I will ask you one more time. Are you sorry for what you did?”

Once again, without waiting for his answer, she struck him with the hanger. “Yes,” he said while being hit.

“And will you ever do such a thing again?”

“No, never.” And she smacked him yet again.

“Do you deserve this punishment?”

“Yes… oh, hell yes. I’ve been bad.”

She struck his ass again.

“Is this a righteous punishment?”

“Yes… oh, shit, Mirage…”

“Did I say you could say my name?” She hit him harder, watched him bite his lip. His face was flushed dark red.

“No, I’m sorry.”

“Good. It’s good that you’re sorry.” She stepped back, tossed the hanger to the side; it clattered elsewhere in the room, and she paid no attention to where it landed. “Your punishment is over. For now. Commit an act like that again, and you will be punished harder.”

She knew this was the start of a game between them, a game she was willingly initiating: Syndrome _would_ deliberately spy upon her again, because she would give him more chances to do so. And then she would punish him. And he would love it.

It was time to get down to business.

“Sit up,” she said.

He obeyed, wincing as he sat on his beaten-up ass, his legs dangling over the side of the bed.

“Kneel in front of me, now.” She was inebriated with power.

He obeyed, getting down on the floor before her, on his knees, staring up contritely, like a worshipper devoted to the altar of his ancient goddess.

She placed a hand on his head, mussing the perfectly-styled ginger hair.

“Now we can begin.”


	6. VI: Mártir (Macroburst)

There were several reasons why Mirage was indispensable.

One, the most obvious one: she knew too much.

Two: she fucked him too good.

Three: she was too good at her job.

After their first sexual encounter, the balance barely changed between them, at least, not in a manner that anyone else could see. But the shift was real, and it was seismic. They remained employer and employee in all other matters, and Syndrome’s attitude toward her did not change, but in the bedroom, she was very much the master of all she surveyed. And, though she had initially only taken on the dominant role because she had read Syndrome as someone who would enjoy such things, she found _herself_ enjoying their new dynamic, too. Mirage had imagined Syndrome as an unskilled and selfish lover, and for the most part—on his own, at least—this was true. But under her direction, obeying her every word, he was more than competent. And she liked watching him obey all her orders and grovel at her feet. She liked punishing him when he dared to dissent. She liked being the one in charge, for once. She reveled in watching one of the world’s most powerful men become putty in her hands.

But it was a game; this she knew. In all the ways that counted, Syndrome was still the one in charge, and although they might playact at mistress and subordinate, in reality, one word from Syndrome would end their charade in an instant. If he grew tired or bored of the games Mirage played with him, said games would quickly be shut down, never to resume.

Due to a combination of luck and skill on Mirage’s part, Syndrome did not grow bored.

One idle Saturday, Mirage had situated herself in one of the hotel’s luxurious suites, setting up a small desk on the balcony so that she could enjoy the light breeze and the beautiful view while she worked. She was whittling down two particular projects at this very moment. One project involved researching contracts and history behind a prominent American company known as DevTech, so that Mirage could suggest a strategy for arranging a partnership between said corporation and Syndrome Enterprises, which Syndrome was convinced would be their most lucrative deal in history—if they could make it work.

The other project was called Macroburst.

Macroburst was a super. A most interesting example of a super, in fact: not only had Macroburst been the former sidekick of Mirage and Syndrome’s most recent target, Everseer, but Macroburst was also a super of indeterminate gender, whose sex had never been confirmed publicly. And, Mirage supposed, it didn’t really matter, anyhow. Male, female, or whatever else: the super would fall at Syndrome’s hand, just like the rest of them.

She was eyeing them as a possible next target for a few reasons. First of all, their relatively low threat rating. Macroburst’s NSA-assigned number was 5.9, which was low enough to mean that the Omnidroid would likely be able to take down this super, but high enough that there might be a good fight between super and robot, first. That was Syndrome’s idea.

“I don’t wanna take on any more small fish, Mirage,” he told her lazily while they were lying in bed one night, running a cold hand back and forth across her naked back. (He was always cold. Always.) “I’m so fucking bored with these chumps who fall down dead within five seconds. Give me a _challenge_. Holy _fuck_.”

And so, she obeyed. Macroburst, she believed, would indeed be a challenge.

Another reason why Mirage was considering Macroburst: they had been Everseer’s sidekick. And that, Mirage thought, was the universe saying something. If she believed in such things, anyhow.

With a light breeze blowing refreshingly on her face, Mirage gently pushed aside the DevTech-related contract she’d been reading, and pulled forward a file on Macroburst. She’d been reading newspaper clippings, public NSA files, interviews, whatever she could get her hands on, much as she had done with the other supers. Now she idly eyed a headshot of Macroburst. They had certainly been a handsome person, with a strong, sharp jaw and bright eyes; she saw intelligence behind those eyes.

“Macroburst, huh?”

Her boss had snuck up behind her, as he was so fond of doing. She turned toward him in her swiveling office chair, giving a small smile. “Yes. You approve?”

“Hell yeah.” Syndrome was leaning against the open balcony door, hyper-casual, as usual. “Solid choice. Macroburst’s cool.”

“Glad to hear you think so. If you approve, I’ll go stateside and retrieve the super…” She tapped her chin, sorting out her commitments and Syndrome’s schedule. “How does tomorrow sound?”

Instead of answering her question, Syndrome frowned. “Hey, Mirage, tiny question for ya.”

“Yes?”

“What would you do if, say… you went all the way over to the US of A, searched for a super, and couldn’t find them?”

She had considered this question in her own mind. “I would switch targets—hunt for a different super.”

“And if you couldn’t find that one, too? Just hypothetically?” He pushed himself off the doorframe lazily, sauntered toward her quite slowly. “Would you slink back here, humiliated, wondering exactly how I’d punish you for disappointing me?”

Oh. This was new.

“I would find a super for you,” she said calmly. “Just as I always have.”

“C’mon, Mirage, it’s just a simple question, a simple scenario I’m asking you to imagine.” He loomed over her, grinning down; in a rare happenstance, she couldn’t read his eyes, which scared the daylights out of her. Syndrome placed both hands on the desk on either side of Mirage, caging her. “If you failed me, what would you do?” She could feel his hot breath on her face. “How would you _feel_?”

Mirage stared steadily up at him, trying to hide her apprehension, and succeeding quite nicely. She felt herself dangling on a precipice, and though she didn’t know exactly where this line of questioning was coming from, she knew it must have something to do with their nighttime activities. She had the power in the bedroom. Was Syndrome attempting to take some of that power back, or was he simply making a clumsy, awkward attempt to emulate it? In his own strange way? Was he trying to remind her that, no matter how much influence she wielded in their sex life, he was in control, and if she displeased him, he could dispose of her?

The most pressing question: was this yet another game, or was she in real danger?

Testing the waters, she asked silkily, “If I failed, what would _you_ do?”

He chuckled. “Damn, that’s the question, isn’t it? Usually, when my subordinates fuck up, I just toss ’em in the garden. You know that.”

“But not me. I’m special,” she lightly teased, trying to keep things chilled.

“You’re special, yeah.” He absent-mindedly ran a finger up the curve of her jaw. “Like a unique, precious little snowflake.” His hand tugged at a strand of her silver hair. A little too hard. “If you failed me, I think I’d have to punish you. Y’know, like _you_ punish _me_ when _I_ fuck up? Turnabout is fair play.”

“That would certainly be fair,” she whispered, trying her best to balance on this narrow beam. She didn’t like this, but she supposed she’d had it coming to her.

“Sooooooo. If you don’t find Macroburst. Or whoever else you hunt for. What’re you gonna do?”

She leaned up so that their lips were almost touching and said against his skin, “Slink back here with tail between legs and await the penalty.”

“Your tail’s not the only thing that’s gonna be between your legs, sweetheart—”

She leaned up further and kissed him to shut him the hell up. This was an odd little conversation, and she felt a slight, but present, sense of dread over its implications.

Two hours later, Syndrome was drunk as hell on white wine, and he was sprawled across the hotel room bed at an odd angle. They’d had a particularly vigorous session. To Mirage’s surprise, despite his words outside on the balcony, he had allowed her to have her way with him, in total control, yet again. Maybe he was all talk.

And maybe… maybe he wasn’t.

“Syndrome,” she said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

He groaned but didn’t answer.

“ _Buddy_ ,” she said sharply, slapping his thigh. She knew his limits, she’d tested them before: when he was this drunk, Syndrome didn’t care what name she called him, and he wouldn’t remember, anyway.

Her employer groaned again and lifted his head. His orange hair, which was typically styled into a flame-like updo, was now mussed into something approaching a mullet. Quite attractive, that. “Whaaaa?” he slurred. “Christ, lemme sleep, Mirage.”

“Just one question first. Then you can sleep to your heart’s content.”

“Yeah? What?” he said blearily.

She asked the question point-blank, no room for hesitation. “Am I dispensable?”

His mouth opened and he frowned hard, as though the question were not comprehensible. “What? Dispensable?”

“Are you planning on getting rid of me?” she asked impatiently. “Please just tell me the truth. I need to know.”

“Wh…?” He tried to sit up, and failed in his drunkenness. Spread like a starfish on the bed, he said, “Get rid of you? C’mon, Mirage. No. Never.”

She scooted toward him, staring down into his eyes. “Is that a lie?”

“No. What? No. Where is this coming from?”

She believed him, and despite herself, her entire body weakened in relief. But despite this, she knew that she needed to be careful with her boss. Now, and always.

“Am I dispensable?” she asked one last time, just to make sure.

“Mirage. No. Look, you’re the only one on this island who’s _not_.” He was still slurring, but making a noted effort to speak as clearly as he could. “After everything? I’m not letting you go. Bet on it.”

She knew, quite well, the multiple meanings this simple phrase could have. _After everything_. She patted his ruddy cheek gently. “Go back to sleep, _mi amor_. It was just a question.”

He obeyed, his eyes closing immediately. As for Mirage, she remained on the edge of the bed for a few minutes and listened to her employer snore, before donning her gray robe, returning to the balcony, removing the paperweights atop the important documents on her desk, and resuming her work.

So it would be Macroburst. Tomorrow.

Nine days later.

Mirage sat in the audience in a darkened theater, only one person out of a very large crowd. She wore dark clothes, black slacks and a black blazer, to further avoid standing out. The room was silent; to quote the colloquialism, you could have easily heard the drop of a pin. On the stage, a dramatic play was unfolding: the story of a man who, after the death of his beloved daughter, grew obsessed with his grandfather clock, believing it housed the spirit of his child. Mirage thought the play was quite interesting, but it was not the story which intrigued her most; it was Cary Sawyer, the actor portraying the lead character’s neighbor.

The play was a quite riveting portrayal of a man who slowly lost his sanity. As the lead actor railed and ranted, the grandfather clock stood impassively beside him and his on-stage wife and children watched in desperate helplessness. Mirage leaned forward, totally engrossed, and surprised to feel a tear actually forming in her eye. Sentimental sap.

She had to remember she wasn’t _here_ for the play, dammit. She was here for Sawyer.

The scene changed, and Sawyer appeared on stage, starting a conversation with the lead actor. Mirage allowed herself a small smile. Sawyer was a prominent and acclaimed character actor in the San Diego stage scene. They were perhaps forty years old, with a thin build, a charmingly mischievous smile, meticulously-styled short hair, and an ambiguous gender. To make things plain: Sawyer was Macroburst. Mirage had already, surreptitiously, delivered a yellow envelope to the actor’s dressing-room, where it waited for Sawyer’s return.

The play soon ended, and Mirage clapped heartily along with the rest of the crowd, even adding a small whoop. She _had_ , after all, quite enjoyed the show.

Sawyer came out on the stage with the rest of the actors, and the thespians linked hands and bowed together, earning more whoops, whistles and cheers from the crowd. Mirage only had eyes for Cary Sawyer. She watched them, eyes narrowing and mouth curving into a smile that indicated far more than just approval of the play. She had her prey in her sights. Now, they only needed to latch onto the bait.

“Hello?”

“Uh, hi there. Is this Mirage?”

“Yes, it certainly is. What can I do for you?”

“This is Macroburst.”

“So I’d assumed. And what a prompt response! You must have a phone in your dressing room.”

“Yeah, well, I try not to leave pretty ladies hanging, if I can help it.”

“That’s a good strategy. Have you decided your choice?”

“I have. I’m in.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

She gave Macroburst the name and address of a private airport located a few miles outside of San Diego, an airport that was, in fact, owned by Syndrome Enterprises. On the airstrip, the automated jet—a sleek and modern example of Syndrome’s engineering prowess—awaited them, with exactly ten of Syndrome’s guards onboard. The crew had been camping there for nine days; they were quite impatient with Mirage, especially since this was not the first time she had kept them waiting. She supposed they didn’t really have much to complain about, seeing as how the jet had a fully-stocked kitchen and a deluxe entertainment center onboard. Besides, Mirage couldn’t help how long her work took. Better to keep Syndrome’s hired goons waiting than to do a shoddy job.

When Macroburst arrived, pulling up beside the jet in a convertible car and stepping out into the sun, Mirage was quite surprised to see the hero was sporting a casual cobalt suit and dress shoes.

“You look dashing, but remember what I said about…?” she asked, eyebrow raised, as the super approached her.

The thespian shrugged. “Yeah, the super suit, sorry about that. I know you said to wear it, but I tore my damn house apart and I couldn’t find the thing. A shame, right?” They smoothed back their hair. “I looked killer in that outfit.”

“So you did,” Mirage murmured, gesturing toward the plane’s lowered staircase. “Shall we?”

The super trotted up the stairs in a carefree fashion, with Mirage following behind. She was already feeling sorry for Macroburst. To face the Omnidroid without even the added protection of a super suit? Maybe they wouldn’t be a challenge for the robot, after all.

For their part, Cary Sawyer seemed quite unconcerned with their lack of a super costume. They swivelled back and forth in the chair across from Mirage’s, their face mapped and turned blue by the hologram grid between the two of them. “So. Mirage. How should I deal with this robot?”

She smiled. “It should be a cinch for someone of your unique abilities, Macroburst. Although, don’t get cocky.”

“That’s my middle name.”

“Well, you’d better forget your middle name. Exercise caution. The Omnidroid has artificial intelligence the likes of which you’ve probably never encountered before. It will learn as you battle against it. It will uncover your weaknesses and use them against you. So, yes, I expect you to beat the robot easily…” She cocked her head, offered a coy half-smile. “But don’t underestimate it. Or _overestimate_ yourself.”

“Gotcha. So, again, what’s my strategy?”

“For all its power and strength, the Omnidroid is surprisingly lightweight. As it is a battle robot, it was designed this way to allow easier transport overseas, in the event of war.” (This was actually true.) On the holographic screen, an image of the Omnidroid rotated around, showing its parts and pieces. “So…”

They finished her sentence. “So, I use my wind to blow the thing to kingdom come.”

“Put simply, yes. The Omnidroid does not do well in water.” (This was a lie. The robot had never actually _been_ in water, but there was no reason why the liquid should feasibly hinder its capabilities.) “Use your wind powers to… shall we say, guide the robot towards a body of water. A pool or the open sea; it doesn’t matter. The robot will shut down, and we can retrieve it without extensive damage. Does that sound good?”

Her flying companion flashed a white-toothed smile. “Sounds like a plan.”

During the streamlined trip to Nomanisan Island, Mirage and Macroburst made some further light small talk, helped by two bright orange mimosa cocktails. When Mirage offered them a drink, Cary Sawyer looked at her with a smiling frown. “Uh, nice thought, but is that really the best idea…?”

“Non-alcoholic champagne,” she replied with a wink. “It won’t be a problem.”

“Oh. In that case, bottoms up.” True to their word, Macroburst drained their champagne flute within minutes.

“So,” Mirage said a few minutes later. They were sitting on comfortable seats in the cockpit of the automated jet, the entire front flanked by wide windows that gave them a spectacular view of the cerulean sky and endless ocean. Clutching the stem of her own champagne flute in her slim hand, Mirage thought about how nice it was, really, that just before Syndrome murdered his targets, he gave them a little taste of heaven. “Are you nervous?”

She asked the question teasingly, and Macroburst gave her an equally-teasing grin in return. “I mean, I’d have to be an idiot _not_ to be nervous. I saw the claws on that robot. Damn!”

“But you’re confident,” Mirage clarified.

“Yes. I’m confident.” Macroburst stared out the window, a small smile playing on their lips. “And excited. It’s been forever since I’ve had any superhero action. It’s just like you said in your message, Mirage. I _am_ aching.”

“And will this kill the ache, do you think?”

“No.” They shook their head. “You got any more robots who might go on an uncontrolled rampage anytime soon?”

“Dozens,” said Mirage with a laugh. “But seriously, don’t worry—if you succeed in this mission, I’m sure my employer will come up with something else for you to do. Our work is… dare I say, the sort of work that often _requires_ a superhero touch.”

Macroburst leaned forward, staring at her intensely. “But supers are illegal.”

“They are. However, in our line of covert and often-dangerous work, there have been so, so many times when we’ve wished we had a hero on our side,” Mirage lied easily. “And besides, if a law is wrong, perhaps the people should simply disregard it. That’s my opinion, anyhow.”

“I feel exactly the same. I understand the higher-ups’ reasons behind that law—all the damage we were doing, it was really inexcusable. Our profession as a whole got reckless and sloppy, and all of us suffered for it. But we’ve all seen how the crime has returned times a hundred to our streets at night, with supers being gone. We’ve all seen how rates of murder and theft have skyrocketed…” Macroburst lifted their hands, a but-what-can-you-do sort of gesture. “I just think it’s time for a change. That’s all I’m saying.”

The casual way with which they spoke, the lightness and ease to their conversation, the friendly banter, the total lack of fear… Macroburst had no clue they were going to die today. No hesitation. No fear at all.

Somehow, to Mirage, that almost made it worse.

“You ready?” Mirage asked Microburst as they approached the pod that would shoot the super down towards the island of heaven, the island of death.

“Uh, just one second…” From their breast pocket, Macroburst produced a small comb and did a once-over of their hair, styling it to perfection. “How’s this look?”

“Immaculate,” said Mirage with an accommodating smile. “You’re ready for action. It’s just a shame you forgot your super suit…”

“Eh,” said Macroburst with a loose shrug. “I’ve fought without it before. I’ll be peachy.”

“In that case, the stage is yours.”

With their skinny frame, Macroburst was loaded horizontally into the pod with _far_ more ease than Everseer had been; thank heaven for small mercies. Mirage pressed a hand against the dark glass between them, giving the charming super one last smile. “Are you good?”

Macroburst gave the thumbs up.

“Good. Remember all I’ve told you, and you’ll be fine.”

The pod shot off with a loud bang that echoed in Mirage’s ears. Mirage was, genuinely and truly, sorry to see it go.

“You think he’ll last long?”

“They.”

“They? Oh, yeah. I always thought they were a _he_. I mean, I assumed.”

“You know what they say about assumptions…”

“Har har. Yeah, I know what they say about assumptions. Back to our regularly scheduled banter: you think _they’ll_ last long?”

“Their rating is more impressive than our last targets. Five-point-nine. But wind powers, I don’t think will be very effective against the Omnidroid.”

“You’re right about that. I mean, though, if Macroburst wants to escape, they can just fly the fuck away.”

“That’s true… but I don’t think they will.”

“Hmm? Whyzat?”

“Well, from the brief time I spent with this super, I don’t think they are the kind of person who gives up very easily.”

“If it comes down to a choice between their life and beating the bot, they’ll give up, sweetheart. It’s just…”

“ _Just nature_. I know.”

“Heh, you know me. Oh, shit, look!”

“…”

“Oh, man. Oh, Mirage, are you seeing this?”

“…”

“Oh, shit! Oh, shit! _Look!_ Are you fucking looking?”

“For god’s sake, Syndrome, yes, I am looking.”

“Holy fuck! Holy f— _oh god!_ Dude! _Dude!_ ”

By this point, her boss was grinning with a smile so wide, she thought his face would split in half. But she could barely spare a glimpse for him. Her vision was glued to the screen, where, moments before, Macroburst had used a vortex of wind to spiral the Omnidroid around fifty feet into the air. With expert precision and minute movements of their hands, Macroburst calmly kept the robot in the air, and began to rotate the Omnidroid’s two wheels with separate gusts of wind; the robot impotently jabbed its pincers in the air, but could do nothing to stop the maelstrom. Within a minute, the wheels were rotating so quickly that they snapped cleanly free of the robot’s body, whereupon Macroburst allowed the machine to crash to the ground, felling a few palm trees in the process. There it lay, snapping ineffectively with one of its pincers—the other was pinned under its body—but unable to right itself or to move. One of the wheels rolled slowly along the uneven jungle earth, eventually collapsing onto its side.

Macroburst stared confidently at their robot victim, hands on hips. “You guys can come and get it!” they called proudly into the jungle.

Mirage’s eyes were like dinner plates, but she managed to say to her boss, “Do you think this is a result of shoddy engineering on your part, or _extreme_ power on theirs?”

Syndrome was shaking his head, still sporting that manic grin. “I dunno, Mirage. I’ll check that out later. Man. Dude. _Finally_.”

“What do we do now?” she said, surprised the words came out so cleanly with all the emotional turmoil that was stirring up her guts. There was something so primally _right_ , and somehow also _wrong_ , about seeing the machine that had massacred three superheroes become so easily defeated by one of their brethren. Mirage couldn’t put her feelings into words.

“Sound the all clear, for starters. Get a few units out there to retrieve the robot’s remains for me. Oh, and give Macroburst a real friendly send-off. Play up their strengths, make their win seem like the biggest fuckin’ thing that ever happened. Make them puff up, y’know? So that when we invite them back, they’ll come like a donkey comes to a carrot.”

“Do you want me to sleep with them?” Mirage asked dryly, raising an eyebrow.

“Um…” She’d asked the question in sarcasm, but to her shock, Syndrome seemed to be actually considering it. “Only if Macroburst seems reluctant to work with us in the future. _Then_ you can offer your feminine wiles up on a silver platter, see if that hooks them.” Syndrome was shaking his head, and that smile just wouldn’t leave his face. “Man. That was awesome. I’m gonna be thinking about that for fuckin’ _years_.”

Syndrome built another Omnidroid.

Mirage watched him work, watched him slave over blueprints and machinations, watched him tinker, watched him pull all-nighters, watched him fall asleep drooling on his papers. More than once, she gently pulled his half-asleep body from his desk and dragged him to bed, ignoring his exhaustedly weak protests. There was something rather endearing about how Syndrome threw himself so relentlessly into designing a machine that could kill someone.

That someone being Macroburst. Who else?

Her boss didn’t seem frustrated over Macroburst’s ability to best the robot. He was more excited about it, excited about an opportunity to improve the Omnidroid’s design. “This time,” he told Mirage with an eager look on his face, “I’ll give it bipedal legs, not wheels, so that this kind of thing doesn’t happen again. I’m gonna make the body shape more streamlined, too—more slender, for ease of movement. I’m also going to update the sensory display—the last one just wasn’t working like I wanted. Give the machine a better reaction time, make it quicker to respond to threats. And listen to this…”

She did listen. Without fail, she listened, and she watched, too, as Syndrome let his work enclose around him like a cocoon, swallowing him whole.

In his absorption, he neglected their sex life. No longer did he come to Mirage in the night; he was too busy piecing together a weapon. To her own shock, she found herself feeling hollow in his absence, missing his eager desire to be dominated.

But, on the other hand, it was nice to have her nights to herself again.

And, also on the other hand, she knew it would resume, that this was only a brief respite, that Syndrome would be back with more hunger than ever. And maybe one day, the tables would shift according to his mood and whim, and it would be _her_ bowing to _his_ sexual will.

After all, despite how Mirage might playact… on Nomanisan Island, everyone knew where the real power lay.

When the Omnidroid v.X2 was finished and battle-ready, Mirage returned to San Diego, standing outside of Cary Sawyer’s dressing room just before an important rehearsal was to take place.

When Macroburst opened the door and saw her, their face broke into a wide smile. “Mirage! You got something else for me?”

“Indeed,” she said, returning the smile. “I do.”

As she had done before, she led them like a lamb to the slaughter.

This time, it was a surprise attack.

As “Oh no, yet _another_ giant robot has broken loose!” wasn’t exactly the most convincing cover story, Mirage invented another one: an assignment so covert, she couldn’t even tell Macroburst about it, not until they reached the safety and security of Nomanisan Island. Macroburst agreed, trusting her instantly, something that made even her shriveled-up heart ache. She’d grown a little fond of the charming super, despite herself.

But what had to be done, had to be done.

They flew to the island, drinking mimosas and chatting with laughter; Mirage’s was fake, though expertly-crafted. She deposited the lamb at Syndrome’s hotel at twelve fifteen pm, with orders to head into the jungle at two pm.

“Follow the path from the hotel into the woods,” she told them, smiling still. “It’ll lead you to a meeting area where we’ll discuss your mission with some of my higher-ups.”

“Any dangerous beasts in the jungle I should be aware of?” they asked her, smiling playfully.

_Only me. Only Syndrome._

“Don’t worry. The largest indigenous animal here is the toucan.”

“Well, I’m not particularly afraid of the toucan,” they responded. “Should I be?”

“The toucan is harmless,” she laughed, playing along. “Unless you’re scared of being pecked to death…”

“I’m not, but thanks for asking.” Macroburst departed down the hallway toward their hotel room with a wave goodbye. “See you at two!”

The elevator doors closed on Mirage as she returned the wave. The instant she was hidden from view, her smile disappeared.

A false toucan followed Macroburst at two o’clock, as the super headed cheerfully down the innocent-looking footpath from the hotel into the jungle. From their observation room, Mirage and Syndrome bore witness.

Syndrome noticed her frown. “Hey, babe. Why the long face? You don’t like this whole ambush idea?”

“No,” she admitted, not wasting energy on a lie. “I’m sorry, it just doesn’t feel right to me. It’s better when we’re telling them at least _part_ of the truth. That feels fair, at least. But this—?”

Syndrome dismissed her concerns with an eye-roll. “Yeah, sweetheart, I know. Trust me, I know this isn’t fair. But it’s fun, and that’s what counts.”

She mildly protested, “But the robot won’t learn anything, as it won’t be a fair battle.”

Her boss shrugged. “Eh, so what? I _just_ designed this thing. Fresh off the damn assembly line! It doesn’t _need_ too much learning, not yet.” He smiled. “What it needs is a kill.”

The path ended at a small clearing in the jungle, but unlike Macroburst had expected, nobody was there. The super stopped in the middle of the clearing, glancing around and frowning in confusion.

“Rock and roll time,” Syndrome said gleefully.

The Omnidroid crashed through the jungle.

Macroburst never had a chance. They hadn’t been expecting this, and hadn’t prepared—not whatsoever. On top of that, this Omnidroid moved markedly faster and more accurately than the last. Within moments, though Macroburst lifted their hands to defend themselves, the Omnidroid had charged toward them before they could properly do so. Its left pincer shot forward, and in that moment, the toucan zoomed in. Macroburst’s face, terrified, eyes huge as they realized their fate…

Mirage honestly felt sick.

Four seconds and it was over. The Omnidroid only needed to aim its pincers at the super’s head. Mirage had witnessed a man’s ribcage crushed, and another torn apart, and a woman flattened against a wall, and somehow this was still the goriest death she had seen. The pincers pierced the super’s head as easily as though it were a soft-boiled egg, quickly finding some sort of niche within the bone, and ripping the skull apart. Macroburst was done. There was no recovering from that. The body crumpled to the ground as the Omnidroid withdrew.

“Not so tough now,” Syndrome said, smiling in smug satisfaction. “Huh, babe?”

She couldn’t even muster a fake response.

To his credit, Syndrome was perceptive of her disgust, at least. “Hey, babe, come on, don’t be upset. I know it’s not fair, I know it’s kind of gross, but just think about it. We’re doing good. In the end, this is _good_. And…” His boyish glee bled through one again, and he gestured wildly toward the screen, the Omnidroid’s remote clutched in hand (because, although the robot was autonomous, there might come some circumstance where it needed to be controlled). “I mean, Mirage, you gotta admit this is cool!”

“It’s too bloody for my taste,” she muttered, and got up from her seat without looking at her boss, quickly heading toward the exit; she felt Syndrome’s eyes on her back, staring at her in bewilderment, unable to comprehend why this gory, unsportsmanlike mess wasn’t to her liking.


	7. VII: La Culpa (Phylange)

“You will tell me how good my idea is. You will tell me now.”

Below her on the bed and pinned between her thighs, her boss said delightedly, “Your idea is _shit_.”

She raised a hand and smacked him full-on across the face, leaving a red handprint. “Say that again, and your punishment will be worse. Don’t force me to break out the cat-o’-nine-tails.”

“Oh my god, _would_ you?”

She smacked him again. “Enough of your lip.”

“Sorry,” he said meekly. “You were saying?”

“Tell me how good my idea is.”

“Your idea… it’s great. Phylange. Hell, yes. Great idea.”

“Tell me I’m the smartest, the best at coming up with ideas.” (She didn’t actually _want_ to hear this; Mirage didn’t need vanity to get off. All this was for Syndrome’s sake.)

“You’re the smartest,” he said breathlessly.

Just one more question and then she’d get to the good stuff. “Tell me I’m the architect of this plan, that you bow to my wisdom, that—”

Cold fingers wrapped around her throat.

“If I were you,” said Syndrome casually, his mood shifted on the flip of a dime, “I wouldn’t press it, sweetheart. These little games are fun, but…” The fingers tightened. “Don’t you ever fucking forget who you are.”

She could just barely breathe, but she nodded in response. She had gone too far. She should have known better.

“Good.” He loosened his hand, but Mirage knew it was just an illusion: Syndrome’s grip was tight as a vise, and always would be.

She and her boss agreed. Their next target would be Phylange.

Phylange was a hero with the power to project sonic fields with his voice, and reading this super’s files and interviews, Mirage was not particularly impressed. Sure, he came with a not-insignificant threat score of 4.7, but personality-wise, Phylange was the definition of obnoxious. She read and watched interview after interview where Phylange talked over reporters and teammates, became defensive at the slightest perceived infraction, and displayed vanity which he certainly hadn’t earned. He was no charmer, but nonetheless, Mirage thought it might be interesting to see how his powers fared against the new and improved Omnidroid.

Mirage looked into Phylange’s identity; this time, she chose a different method than breaking into a courthouse. Mirage had read that Phylange had served in the second World War under his superhero name—not a rarity for supers, but still, something that none of their previous three targets had done. His service meant that the super would be listed on the cenotaph called the National Monument of War Heroes, which was covered with the names of superhero participants in the war. As well, his files would be located in its adjacent museum, the War Hero Museum, alongside that of dozens of other superhero soldiers and servicemen. In those files, doubtless, Phylange’s real identity would be recorded.

So, with a deft and expert hand, and the use of Syndrome’s advanced computers and printing tech, Mirage forged herself a new identity as Leila Frost, an agent of the National Supers Agency. With this identity, she flew to the United States, with false passport, identification and NSA badge in hand.

Syndrome had suggested the name.

“Does it have any particular significance?” she inquired curiously.

“You know Stratogale?”

“Of course.” It had been an international incident years before: American Airlines Flight 782. Sometime in 1957, the exact date slipped Mirage’s mind, the plane had experienced engine trouble, whereupon the superheroine Stratogale flew to its “rescue.” Sadly, immediately after “rescuing” the plane, she was sucked into its engine by her cape, causing the airliner to spiral to the ground and killing all 135 people aboard. Mirage raised an eyebrow. “Have you graced me with Stratogale’s real name?”

“After she died, her real identity was released,” Syndrome said with a shrug. “I just thought it would be kinda ironic to name you after her. Y’know, since if she was alive, we’d probably be killing her, and all.”

“Indeed,” murmured Mirage. She wasn’t quite sure how she felt about being given a dead superhero’s name, but it certainly fit Syndrome’s macabre sense of humor.

In any case, “Leila Frost” flew to the United States, hunting for Phylange.

On a cold and blustery steel-skied day in Houston, Texas, Mirage knelt beside the giant, square-shaped stone pillar that was the cenotaph. It was located on a raised concrete platform surrounded by steps, and it was probably ten feet high and five feet wide at the base, carefully carved in several rows with the names of super soldiers. Mirage was kneeling beside the “P” section, and she carefully traced her finger over the names until she saw it.

Phylange.

She smiled. Jackpot.

Mirage entered the large museum which was located beside the cenotaph. There, she passed quietly by the various displays, infographics, and artifacts—such as super costumes or singed helmets—that were being admired by various milling museum-goers. That was not Mirage’s quarry today.

Instead, she went up a long set of stairs in the museum, finding herself on the second floor. There, she passed more museum exhibits, with the spectators growing sparser as she moved further into the labyrinthine halls. Finally, Mirage encountered a door labeled “File Room.” With a tiny smile, and looking left and right to ensure no one was watching her with curious eyes, Mirage opened the door and slipped within, closing the door behind her.

She found herself in a darkened room, and fumbled against the wall beside the door until her hand caught on a light switch, which she flipped. The room was pretty dull, with boring brown walls and a green speckled carpet, but that wasn’t what interested Mirage. There, against the wall, were rows and rows of file cabinets, each labelled with two letters. A-D. E-M. N-Q. R-T. U-Z.

Mirage went straight to N-Q, crouching beside the cabinet and attempting to open it. No dice. She jiggled the drawer; perhaps it was stuck. Again, no dice. Locked. She made a very slight growl of frustration.

Just as she was figuring out what to do next, a mild voice behind her said, “Excuse me, ma’am? This room is for scholars and law enforcement only. Do you have a clearance badge?”

She turned and stood, smoothing off her skirt and smiling placatingly at the young, nebbish security guard who was standing in the door. “Of course. I’m terribly sorry for intruding.”

They approached each other and Mirage smoothly produced her forged identification badge from her skirt pocket. “National Supers Agency. Agent Leila Frost,” she told him, as though her badge didn’t already relay all that information.

The guard squinted at the ID badge, and for a moment Mirage’s heart caught in her throat, worried that she had made some sort of mistake, and the guard would pick it out and send her packing—or, worse, have her arrested for impersonating an agent of the law. But, of course, she had not made a mistake. She kept herself calm and cool on the surface, betraying none of her inner nervousness, and within moments the guard said, “Yup, you’re clear. Sorry for bothering you, Agent Frost.” 

“It’s no trouble,” Mirage responded as she took her badge back from him and replaced it in her pocket. “You’re just doing your job, after all.”

“That I am. So, what brings you here today?” he asked in a friendly manner.

“Work,” she replied with a wink. “I’d tell you, but…”

“…then you’d have to kill me. I get it,” the guard chuckled. “You NSA types, always so shifty. Y’know, I’ve always been a superhero fan. I’ve still got a huge poster of Mr. Incredible up on my bedroom wall,” he admitted, blushing slightly. “So, if you ever get the chance… would you tell your bosses, or whoever, that there are still people out there who think supers should never have been banned? ’Cuz I know for sure that I’m not the only one who thinks so.”

“I’ll put in a good word,” she affirmed with a nod and smile. Internally, she wondered what this super fanboy would think if he knew Mirage’s career was not spent protecting supers, but destroying them. 

Phylange’s file was mostly focused on his superhero career and his war career, not his personal identity. There were several paragraphs worth of information about his personal attributes, super abilities, and contributions to the war effort, but the only reference to his secret identity was four small, typed words on the top left corner of a sheet that listed the super’s positions in various notable battles. (Mirage noticed that terms like “moral support,” “encouragement for the troops” and “one-man vocal show” were used far more than terms like “battle position,” “regiment” or “squadron.” Quite interesting, that.)

She ran over the words with a finger, tracing their grooves.

_CIVILIAN NAME: LACHLAN COLLINS_

That was enough.

If Cary Sawyer had been a public figure, then Lachlan Collins was a public figure times ten. Much like Sawyer, their previous target, Lachlan was involved in the arts: he was an opera singer, a talent which Mirage supposed was befitting to his superpowered voice.

Or, at least, he had _been_ an opera singer. Many years ago, Collins was a notable performer who regularly sold out venues around the world: Sydney Opera House; Wembley Stadium; the Greensboro Coliseum, among others; he was noted for his deep, robust baritone. Today, he had lost his voice—and his fame.

She found him at Redding Community College in Sumter, South Carolina, where the former superhero and world-famous reporter—now a portly, balding shadow of his former glory—taught an elective class on vocals. “Collins’ class is a novelty,” one of the school’s secretaries told Mirage as she led the “secret agent” down the hallway toward Lachlan Collins’ office. “It doesn’t really have anything to do with any program. The board’s thinking about canceling it next semester, anyway, since nobody ever signs up for it. He’s got, oh, I don’t know… something like ten students this semester. It’s just not sustainable. But anyway, dear, don’t listen to my gossip. Here we are.” She gave Mirage a pointed look. “Between you and me, I don’t care if you _do_ audit him. Five thousand dollars a semester for _trumpet cleaning_ … feh. Something’s always been fishy with his spending.”

“We’ll see, ma’am,” said Mirage impassively; she’d introduced herself as an agent of the IRS, and the secretary hadn’t even asked to see her credentials.

The secretary left “Leila” at the door, one of many identical doors spanning the length of the dull, dreary hallway. Mirage pushed it open, revealing what was inside. The office was a mess, cluttered with knick-knacks, boxes and strewn-about detritus. A wooden desk in the center—littered with papers—was currently unoccupied, as Collins was on his lunch break. Covertly, Mirage left a yellow package resting on said desk, and then retreated from the room. As there was no good place to hide and observe Phylange as he watched her message on the tablet, Mirage retreated from the college. She sat in her parked car in the parking lot, allowing the engine to idle while the radio quietly sang a swinging love song and she awaited his phone call. (She’d seen a phone on his desk; he had no excuse.)

He didn’t disappoint; within thirty minutes of waiting, her phone rang.

“Hello?”

The words were hissed aggressively and anxiously into the phone, and weaved their way like snakes into Mirage’s ears. “I just want to know one thing, how the _hell_ did you people find me?”

“I—”

He cut her off. “Was it Marie? Was it that bitch? Wait, I don’t even know why I’m asking you this, of _course_ it was Marie. I’m going to ki—”

“Mr. Collins,” Mirage all but shouted, very firmly. “We have no contact with, or _interest in_ , your ex-wife.”

“Yeah, that’s a likely story,” he muttered spitefully, but at least he’d quieted down.

She already hated Phylange. And she’d spent all of ten seconds on the phone with him.

“Listen, Mr. Collins, and listen closely. We need your help.”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard your message,” he snapped impatiently. “Look, lady. I don’t know who the hell you are, or what company you represent, but I’m not too fond of strangers tracking me down without my knowing, and I’m damn well not gonna follow you to some mysterious island in the middle of nowhere. End your harassment of me immediately, and never contact me again. _Goodbye_.” A loud click, and a dial tone was all Mirage heard.

Well. That was… something different.

Mirage simply sat in the car for a few further minutes, allowing time to slip past while she collected herself and considered next steps. She recalled not too long ago, when Syndrome had veiledly threatened her with punishment should she fail to entrap one of her targets. She wasn’t sure what form that punishment would take—sexual games in the bedroom, or something much more serious?—but no matter what, she feared it all the same. Still, she certainly _wasn’t_ going to keep trying with Phylange: he’d made his position very clear, and if she continued to pursue him, he might contact the authorities or the NSA, which would spell bad news for Mirage and her allies.

She would switch targets, try someone else; she had only lost a few days of time. Tradewind, perhaps; that was another super who had been on her radar. Or maybe Blazestone.

With annoyed acceptance, Mirage picked up her phone yet again, dialing a string of numbers. “Yes?” answered the gravelly voice of the head goon aboard their jet.

“This is Mirage. I’m switching targets,” she informed him.

“Switching targets?” he asked, and she could hear him frowning. “You ever done that before?”

“No.”

“The boss okay with it?”

“He’ll have to be okay with it,” said Mirage, only allowing a small portion of her annoyance to creep into her tone. “The current target is a no-go. Trust me on that.”

“Well, okay,” said the guard skeptically, “we’ll await your return.” And the line went dead.

Before returning to the jet to spend the night, Mirage decided she wasn’t going to waste the rest of the day. She centered her sights on Blazestone as her next target, and drove out of the parking lot, heading for the Sumter Library and Archives, where she could hopefully find at least _something_ to go on. But as she drove through the streets of Sumter, her phone suddenly rang again.

Mirage slammed on the brakes, pulling over into the nearest available venue—the parking lot of a bowling alley—and parking at an odd angle. She yanked the phone from its rest and pressed it to her ear. “Hello?”

To her shock, the voice of Lachlan Collins—now relatively contrite—came from the speaker. “Hey, uh, listen. Is it too late to change my mind?”

 _No,_ hell _no, by all means, change your mind,_ Mirage thought with antsy hope. “Of course not. We’d be glad to have you join us. But may I ask, what caused this change of heart?”

“I just got to thinking…” His heavy sigh crackled through the phone. “When am I gonna get a chance like this again? For the past fourteen years, I haven’t been getting the attention I deserve as a super. Or,” he chuckled darkly, “in any aspect of my life, obviously. Now, you come and offer me a job, to do hero work again, and I’m gonna spit in your face? Forget about that. I’m in, if you’ll still have me.”

If it were solely up to Mirage, she would have switched targets anyway. Phylange was an asshole, she could sense that already, and she didn’t want to spend a second with him if she could help it, let alone a whole plane ride to Nomanisan. But it _wasn’t_ up to her; she and Syndrome had already agreed on a target. And avoiding pissing Syndrome off was her first priority.

“We’ll still have you,” she purred. “After all. You are our first and only choice.”

He looked outrageous in his super suit. And Mirage had pretty much expected that.

The man formerly known as Phylange had gained perhaps a hundred pounds since his heyday, and his nearly-bald head was ringed with an unkempt crown of graying hair. His super suit consisted of a green costume with yellow fins flanking his waistline, yellow boots, and a yellow cape; as expected after fourteen years of weight gain, the outfit no longer fit as it should.

Actually, that was an understatement. When Phylange pulled up to the airport parking lot (another airport owned by Syndrome, by the way; he owned thousands of properties on the mainland) in his beat-up old station wagon and stepped out into full view, Mirage had to restrain a wince at the sight of him. The seams were clearly straining on his costume; his great lumps and folds of flesh threatened to stretch the suit to its limits. Despite how abrasive he’d been on the phone, Mirage immediately felt sorry for the hero. He had declined so much since his golden years, and against the Omnidroid, he would probably not stand a chance.

But still, if Mirage had learned one lesson from Macroburst, it was to avoid underestimating her targets.

Mirage stood on the bottom step of the jet’s extended staircase, her hand resting on the railing; as Phylange approached, she gave him a smile that was far warmer than she felt. “Phylange. It’s wonderful to finally meet you in the flesh.”

“Yeah,” he grumbled as he reluctantly shook her offered hand. “Look, you got a bathroom on this plane? Because that’s gonna decide whether I actually go with you today.”

“This jet is state-of-the-art. We have all the facilities you could possibly need,” Mirage smoothly informed him.

He frowned at her. “That include a bathroom?”

“Yes. That includes a bathroom,” she said patiently.

“Then we’re set.” The vocal teacher lumbered up the steps, pushing Mirage aside in his haste—presumably, his haste to reach the washroom.

They were certainly off to a delightful start.

“You got any food on this plane?”

Mirage briefly closed her eyes in exhausted frustration, then opened them again, gazing at Lachlan Collins, who sat across from her, the holographic grid between them. She made a great effort to keep her features neutral. “Was something wrong with the foie gras you’ve already eaten?”

“ _Real_ food, Mirage. No offense, but that duck liver stuff, or whatever it was? That’s rabbit food. That’s not gonna cut it.”

 _Yes, you look positively starved_. “I apologize if the foie gras wasn’t to your liking. Right now, though, I have to ask you to concentrate on the information I’m giving you. It’s of vital importance.”

“How can I concentrate on anything when my stomach’s making noises like a freight train?”

“How about this,” she offered a compromise. “After I’m done debriefing you, I’ll send word down to the kitchen to whip you up a nice steak. How’s that sound?”

“Don’t know why you didn’t do that in the first place,” he muttered, “but that sounds fine.”

_Selfish ass._

“As I was saying, to summarize: you will use your sonic vocal fields to disrupt the Omnidroid’s computerized operations, frying its internal processor with little external damage. For someone with your unique set of gifts, there should be little difficulty, which…” She chuckled lightly. “…is why we called you in the first place, of course. But I warn you: don’t get overconfident. It could be your downfall.”

“Can I just ask. What do you mean, _don’t get overconfident?_ ”

By the way he was glaring at her, Mirage could tell she’d offended him somehow. Oh, great, here we go. “I simply meant to avoid arrogance, Phylange. It’s a lesson everyone, even the best of us, would do well to remember. Your skills should easily bring the robot down, but still, you should exercise caution.”

“You doubt me,” he said, sounding incredulous. “Even after seeking me out specially, because I’ve got the skills that you need for this job, and even after reading about all my accomplishments, you doubt me.”

 _What accomplishments?_ she almost scoffed. “I don’t doubt you,” she tried to reassure him. “ _We_ don’t doubt you. Everything you say is true: you do have the skills we need.”

“Then don’t insult me by telling me not to get overconfident,” he said in a hard voice, staring her down. “I’m just the right level of confident, always have been.”

“Fine,” said Mirage, finally allowing a measure of her exasperation to slip through into her response. “I apologize for offending you. Can we move on?”

The weighty super leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Fine. We can move on.”

Mirage wouldn’t go so far as to say she was _looking forward_ to seeing Collins get torn apart, but she certainly wasn’t dreading it.

Syndrome greeted her with a raised eyebrow when Mirage entered the observation room. “Took you long enough. Our sensors indicated the jet entered island airspace forty minutes ago. What gives? Were you just hovering around up there?”

A highly-vexed Mirage flumped down onto a swivel chair, staring at her boss with tired eyes. “He just wouldn’t fit in the pod. We had to squeeze and squeeze, and finally, we admitted to ourselves that it just wasn’t going to happen.”

“Ha! So what did you do, send him down manually?”

“Yes. We had to actually take the jet down to the island’s surface and drop him off that way.”

“Hmph. Fatass. That’s fuckin’ hilarious. So, other than that, how was the trip?”

“Uneventful,” she said charitably.

“You like Phylange okay?”

She decided not to lie to her boss. “Phylange is an egotistical idiot,” she admitted. “I didn’t enjoy a single second of his company.”

“Heh.” He flashed a knowing smile and made a sweeping gesture toward the screen. “So, I bet you’re pretty excited to watch this soap opera play out, aren’t ya?”

“You mean, am I eager to watch Phylange die?” She regarded her boss with clear eyes. “To be honest, he wasn’t _that_ bad.”

Syndrome abruptly changed the subject. “Hey, I heard from Davies that you were changing targets, but you didn’t. What’s up with that?”

“It wasn’t my choice—it was Phylange. He refused my offer at first. Quite firmly.”

“Huh, interesting. But he came around.”

“Indeed he did.”

On-screen, Phylange was stumbling around in the jungle. Mirage could see his lips moving, and she imagined he was complaining to himself about the humidity, or something equally inane.

“Do you think this one will last long against your weapon?” she asked of her boss.

Syndrome shrugged, cracking a smile. “Who knows? After Macroburst, I’ve learned not to underestimate our targets, but this guy… I don’t think he’d stand a chance against a wet paper bag.”

As if to prove Syndrome’s point, Phylange tripped over a vine on the ground and fell flat on his face. There he lay, presumably moaning and groaning.

“He’s pathetic,” Mirage murmured.

“This is almost too much,” said Syndrome.

It took what felt like an hour for Phylange to finally push himself back upright, and he began stumbling around again. When he turned toward the toucan camera, Mirage saw his mouth was still moving, beneath his heavy, rotten scowl.

“I imagine he’s cursing up a storm,” she postulated.

Syndrome leaned toward the screen. “We really need to get sound on this thing.”

Having seen numerous supers’ mouths agape in silent screams while being killed, Mirage didn’t think this was a particularly good idea—at least, not for _her_ mental health; Syndrome would probably revel in it.

Syndrome suddenly pointed at the small map-monitor beside the larger screen. “Look. It’s coming.”

Indeed, the small dot representing the Omnidroid was rapidly approaching the dot representing Phylange. Phylange’s eyes whipped around frantically as he realized he wasn’t alone in the jungle, and within moments the Omnidroid crashed through the brush toward him. But Phylange wasn’t so easily defeated. He opened his mouth wide, and Mirage could _see_ the noise that emerged, the sonic power, in the form of a translucent wave that erupted from his mouth toward the robot.

The device was briefly repelled, but, unlike Mirage had told Phylange, his powers did not cause an immediate shutdown. The Omnidroid quickly recovered and began charging toward him once again. Phylange’s eyes widened in surprise and shock, and then in fury, as he realized that Mirage had lied to him—or, so she imagined. He aimed another sonic blast from his mouth toward the robot, who, again, was repelled—but only for a moment.

“Wow, he’s actually holding his own. Sweet,” said Syndrome with a certain amount of respect.

Mirage shook her head. “But not for long, I don’t think.”

“Oh, no, I don’t think so either. That sonic thing is not going to work forever.”

Indeed, the robot was creeping slowly but surely towards Phylange, even though he kept discharging blast after blast from his mouth to keep it at bay. In the end, Phylange realized that his vocal powers were not going to work—not this time. The super tried a different tactic. He attempted to dart around the robot, probably in an effort to see if striking it from another angle would work, but unfortunately, a man of Phylange’s size cannot _dart_ very easily. He was too slow, too soft.

The Omnidroid aimed a pincer at him and grabbed him around the waist, hauling the weighty superhero through the air as though he weighed nothing. Phylange was helpless as the robot, with great force, slammed him against the earth once.

Twice.

Three times.

The fourth time, Phylange left a bloody smear against the dirt below his face.

The fifth time, the Omnidroid aimed Phylange’s body not toward the ground, but toward a nearby scattering of rocks. This time, more blood was left on the ground.

The sixth time, when the Omnidroid lifted Phylange with the intent to slam him onto the ground again, Mirage caught a glimpse of the super’s face—or what remained of it. She knew there was no going back. Phylange was done.

“Well, that was disappointing,” Syndrome sighed. On screen, the Omnidroid continued to strike Phylange’s now-floppy body against the earth again and again, like clockwork. “I guess Macroburst spoiled me. I was looking forward to more _eventful_ battles. Well, I guess we’ll learn what we can from this.”

“Yes, we’ll learn what we can,” Mirage parroted. The screen caught her eye again and she cringed at the sight. “Can’t you make the robot stop doing that?”

“Eh, Phylange just must not be dead yet, or else it _would’ve_ stopped already.”

She regarded Phylange’s body as it slammed on the ground yet again, face reduced to a mess of bone and muscle, blood everywhere, one arm broken and flopping around at an odd angle. “You think he’s not dead?” she asked Syndrome dryly.

“Well, I mean, he can’t be,” replied her employer, though she heard skepticism in his voice. “Otherwise, why would the Omnidroid keep doing that?”

“Fun?” she suggested, though that idea was so dark that she didn’t even like thinking about it.

Syndrome looked at the scene for a few more moments, then lifted his arm. On his wrist was a new-and-improved version of the Omnidroid’s remote, one that resembled a thick white bracelet or cuff on his arm, and, if you didn’t inspect it too closely, just looked like a part of his glove. He pressed a button on the remote, and the Omnidroid immediately stiffened, returning to a neutral position and staying totally motionless, awaiting further orders. With this, it released Phylange’s body; the super fell to the ground and lay at an odd angle, as still as the robot that had killed him.

Mirage picked up her walkie-talkie and murmured instructions into it, sounding the all clear, and asking for the body to be retrieved and the mess to be cleaned. The words flowed from her so easily. As though she’d been doing this all her life.


	8. VIII: Amada (Blazestone)

“Hey, babe? _I’m_ choosing the next target.”

Mirage looked up from her paperwork. They were sitting at a long wooden table situated in a small conference room in an upper level of Syndrome’s hotel, waiting for delegates from Russia to arrive and hold talks with Syndrome about possibly setting up a business relationship. There were fifteen minutes before their guests were meant to arrive, and Mirage was busily looking over some potential drafted contracts for any last-minute revisions, while her boss was busy checking out the dossiers of their potential clients. Two armed guards were posted outside the door, more were just down the hall, and a pair of guards would lead the guests politely up to the conference room. They were _not_ dealing with a pleasant crowd today.

She blinked at her employer. “Pardon? You don’t like my choices?”

Syndrome shrugged, eyes still trained on the dossier in front of him, idly flipping a page as though Mirage were entirely uninteresting. “I mean, if it were up to _me_ , we wouldn’t have picked that loser Phylange. Or chosen Everseer right after doing another psychic. Macroburst is your only real win, babe. Why don’t we switch things up and let me decide for a change?”

Mirage didn’t put up a protest, allowing her boss to take the reins. What he wanted—within reason—he would get. The last thing she desired was to displease Syndrome. “Certainly. Who exactly did you have in mind?”

“Eh.” He waved a flippant hand. “Someone interesting, cool. Like Frozone, or maybe his old girlfriend, Blazestone. Or Gamma Jack—hot damn, now _that_ was a character. Any of those names stand out to you?”

“So you are still allowing me to have input,” she noted mildly. “How generous of you.” This gentle teasing was calculated: just enough to keep a little spice in their relationship, a little bit of banter which Syndrome—and, admittedly, Mirage too—enjoyed so much, while not being enough to offend him.

It worked. Syndrome rolled his eyes in her direction. “Of course I still want your input. Otherwise what the hell am I paying you for?”

“Sex?” she suggested blandly.

He tapped his head. “ _Ideas_ , sweetheart.”

“All right. Then I’ll share my ideas with you. In my opinion, Blazestone is the best candidate. I was already considering her.”

“Just curious: what, exactly, about her do you like?”

Mirage rattled off a list, steepling her fingers and regarding Syndrome with cool eyes that could turn from green to amber with the smallest shift in the light. “Her threat rating: higher than Phylange’s, but not the highest we’ve encountered. Her abilities: she has fire powers, something which we’ve not yet encountered, a way in which the Omnidroid has not yet been tested—a perfect way for the robot to learn. Her personality: highly intelligent, a rule-breaker. I believe she will be of much greater interest to you than the previous battles have been.”

“In other words, she’ll put up a better fight,” Syndrome mused. “That what you’re saying?”

“Precisely. She won’t simply stand there and allow everything to happen, as some of our targets have unfortunately done. She’ll innovate.”

“And you’re choosing her based on whether she’ll capture my interest, huh? That’s kind of sexy.”

Mirage internally rolled her eyes. To Syndrome, everything was sexy. Well, to put a finer point on it: everything was either about sex or power. Or both.

“Yes. Since you’ve found several of my choices to be boring, I don’t think I can go wrong by choosing a slightly more colorful candidate.”

Syndrome regarded her with smiling eyes, laugh lines crinkling the edges. “But you gotta remember, Mirage. In the end. It’s _my_ choice.”

“ _Por supuesto_. Always,” she murmured, taking a sip from her nearby mug of cooled-down coffee with the Syndrome Enterprises logo printed on its side. She occasionally allowed Spanish to leak into her speech, more than usual. Why? Because after she’d accidentally done it a few months ago, Syndrome had informed her that he thought her Spanish was very hot and she should speak it more often. So, deliberately, she did. Anything and everything to please him.

To her annoyance—but not her surprise—Syndrome’s eyes suddenly darkened with desire out of nowhere. Maybe her Spanish had triggered it; Syndrome was quite the language fetishist. “You know what would be hot? If we fucked on this table right now.” As if she couldn’t see the table right in front of her, he tapped on it with his gloved hand. “See if we can get done before our clients show up. And if we can’t, well…” He grinned. “We’ll put on a show for them, anyway.”

Mirage suppressed a shudder at the idea of being discovered in the middle of coital relations with Syndrome by their potential new business allies. “I don’t think that’s the best idea. Perhaps another time, when we’ve got more time to play with, we can try that.”

“Hey, um…” Syndrome leaned toward her. “I think you’re overestimating just exactly how much of this relationship is about what _you_ want.”

The words turned her blood to ice water.

Before anything further could occur, there was a light rapping at the door. “Come in,” called Syndrome jovially.

The door creaked open; it was one of Syndrome’s masked henchmen. “Sir, your guests have arrived ahead of schedule. Should I show them in?”

Syndrome waved his hand. “Yeah, yeah, show them in. We’re ready for ’em.”

With that, the conversation ended, but throughout their meeting with the Russians, Mirage’s blood remained cold. Certainly she knew everything was about pleasing her boss, that all the power belonged to him. But for him to imply…

She hated the shifting balance between them, hated never knowing whether he was just joking around or whether he truly intended to hurt her. It was one of the worst things about the job.

If it weren’t for the money, she would not have stayed this long.

But oh, there was _so_ much money.

Municiberg, California was a dreary place. In the past few years, since the departure of the supers who had once protected it, the town had become a haven for criminals. Rather like Gotham in the comics. At one point, Municiberg had been the one city in the world with the largest population of superheroes: three supers per hundred thousand civilians, a markedly impressive number, especially when you consider its population of over one million. Today, the town was empty of supers, and full of lecherous thieves who pushed Municiberg to its limits.

It was winter, the city covered with a light dusting of frost and snow, and Mirage moved through the downtown streets at midday, wearing a long blue peacoat, and underneath, a sharp plum-colored suit. On the sidewalk, the people she passed looked cold and unfriendly, walking with their heads down and saying nothing. Needles and odd stains littered the ground. As she passed an alley, Mirage was pretty sure she witnessed a drug deal out of the corner of her eye, but didn’t look and quickly continued on her way. All around her, the storefronts of the downtown core didn’t look too appealing: some were dingy, with décor in the windows that looked like it hadn’t been updated in twenty years; some were dirty and untidy, clothes on mannequins the wrong way and so forth; some windows were broken, some doors boarded up. None of the stores Mirage passed tempted her in the slightest. It was a sorry state of affairs, full of sorry people, but maybe things were better in the suburbs.

This was what had happened in almost fifteen years of super absence. Crime had taken over, and the people were suffering for it.

Mirage heard the distant sound of glass breaking and people shouting: a robbery, but luckily it was happening on another street. She wasn’t particularly worried. If _she_ was attacked, she could certainly protect herself. But, admittedly, Municiberg did make her nervous. It was not a pretty place.

Before long, she reached what she’d been searching for. Not the Municiberg courthouse, though that was Mirage’s next stop, if her first stop didn’t yield any fruit. No, she would first try a different method.

186 Spring Street was unremarkable, yet another store connected to a long row of other stores. This one was a deli. Through the smudged windows Mirage could see some very unsafe meat-handling practices going on, and tried not to shudder. It wasn’t the deli she was here for, anyway.

She went to the door _beside_ the door to the deli, opened it, and went up the stairs she found there, heading to a long, skinny hallway with two doors on either side. The apartments above the deli. At the door labeled 2B in chipped golden letters, she knocked firmly. Within a surprisingly short amount of time, the door swung open, creaking loudly as though the wood were ready to give out.

A thin, balding man, perhaps forty, wearing round wire glasses and a blue polo shirt and jeans, peered at Mirage suspiciously. “Hello. Can I help you?”

“Mr. DeJesus?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Leila Frost.” From a pocket on her coat, she smoothly produced her “NSA credentials,” displaying them for the man. “I’m looking for information on someone. I think perhaps you know who I’m talking about.”

The man stared at her for a few moments, lips pursed. She couldn’t read his expression. “Blazestone,” he finally said.

“Yes, that’s correct. Do you mind if I come in?” She flashed a charming smile.

He paused for just a few more seconds before finally relenting, “All right. Come on in.”

They sat on two plush, high-backed red chairs in his living room—or what passed for a living room. It was simply a half-empty space with an outdated old television (that Mirage wasn’t sure was even plugged into the wall), numerous tapes strewn about the floor, and the two chairs as well. There was a window beside them, which looked down into an alley beside the building. Harold DeJesus stared out the window as he spoke.

“I knew you guys would come someday. I just didn’t think it would take this long.”

“And why is that?” Mirage questioned, taking a sip of the mug of tea that DeJesus had offered her.

He shrugged. “Blazestone has… well, she’s got a temper. A bad one. She was always infuriated about being forced underground after the Relocation Act kicked in. Add that to her love of hero work, and I just always figured she’d go rogue. What has she done, exactly?”

“Probably nothing. She’s not in trouble, Mr. DeJesus. We’re simply wondering about her whereabouts.”

His gaze turned to her, sharp and wary. “You’re the NSA. Shouldn’t _you_ have records of her whereabouts?”

“Unfortunately,” lied Mirage easily, “our headquarters has experienced a small fire which destroyed scores of records, including hers. And Blazestone’s case worker is out of the country for the next few months, uncontactable; he’s the only person who knows her location offhand. It’s a sorry set of circumstances, but your help would be greatly valuable to us.”

“Why are you looking for her?” he asked, still suspicious.

Mirage had a very convenient story ready for this question. “Have you heard about the series of arsons taking place in northern California?”

He blinked. “Oh, Jesus. You don’t think…?”

“The fires have no discernable cause, and a woman matching Blazestone’s description was seen leaving one of the scenes.”

“But innocent people have died in those fires. I _know_ Blazestone. She may have a hot temper, but she’d never—”

“With respect, Mr. DeJesus. I understand that you worked very closely with Blazestone for a number of years, documenting her life as a superhero. With that in mind, I know you _think_ you know her. But you never truly know someone. Not until you’ve seen them at their worst.”

“I _have_ seen her at her worst,” he said quietly, but didn’t sound all that convinced.

She shook her head. “We believe the super may have suffered from a mental breakdown. Perhaps from all these years of being forced to pretend to be a civilian. You know she chafed under our rules. You know it was getting to be too much. You know these things.”

“Yes, but…”

“Search your heart. Do you really think Blazestone is incapable of snapping and losing her head like this?”

He turned his head, looking out the window again, and didn’t speak for a few moments.

“No,” he sighed, exhaling hard. “Under extreme duress… I think she could commit arson. If she lost her head completely.”

“And what are the chances of Blazestone losing her head completely?” Mirage inquired gently.

“Not insignificant,” muttered DeJesus, not looking her in the eye.

“For someone of her infamous temper, I don’t doubt it. We just want to ask her some questions, ensure that she wasn’t involved with these crimes. With that being said, will you divulge her location to me?”

“Tamara…” He shook his head. “Tamara wouldn’t want me to do that.”

Ah. A real name. Quite valuable, even if DeJesus didn’t tell her anything else.

“As a journalist, I’m sure you understand and appreciate confidentiality. Protecting your sources. I’m _also_ ,” she stressed, “sure you appreciate the fact that sometimes, information is needed, regardless of the source’s desire for said information to be shared. Am I wrong?”

“You’re not wrong. But if Tamara _is_ behind these arsons, are you going to target her? Hurt her?”

“Only if absolutely necessary. And remember, our intervention may save lives.”

He considered for a few moments, looking quite conflicted. Finally, DeJesus said, “She lives at 591 Ward Road. In Escondido.”

If Mirage had been able to do so without alarming DeJesus, she would have smiled, showing all her teeth.

“Thank you, Harold. Your cooperation won’t be in vain.”

Of course, the arsons in northern California had nothing to do with Blazestone; they were just a convenient way for Mirage to gain information. And gain information, she had.

A quick bit of telephone research revealed that the person living at 591 Ward Road, Escondido, California, was named Tamara Jean Corfas, which jibed with DeJesus’s story. Mirage returned to her jet and flew to Escondido, which was only about a twenty-minute plane ride from Municiberg. Then again, Syndrome’s planes were very speedy and very efficient, a wonder of engineering prowess. As with everything else he laid his hands on: flawless.

After receiving clearance to land at a small private airport in Escondido’s outskirts, Mirage stood outside and watched coolly as a ramp lowered from the jet’s underside, and a masked lackey drove Mirage’s sleek car onto the tarmac. From there, she drove through the streets of Escondido, using Syndrome’s patented GPS system to head for 591 Ward.

It was a run-down two-storey brick house in a row of similar houses, not particularly impressive in any manner. On the upper level, a small wooden balcony jutted, with a single chair but no other decoration. It wasn’t an appealing-looking place. With eyes masked by round black sunglasses, Mirage squatted in front of the door, holding her yellow envelope, intending to slide it underneath. She heard the door _snick_ , however, and adrenaline thrilled through her veins as she realized she’d been spotted through the window. _Too sloppy, Mirage, you dunce_. She instantly rose to her feet, waiting for the fallout.

The woman who opened the door wasn’t Blazestone; that was clear enough. She was of Asian heritage, perhaps thirty-five, and with a hard, cold stare, wearing jeans and a green sweater. She had the rasping voice of a long-time smoker. “Look, we’ve told you people enough times, we don’t want to buy your fucking vacuums. Leave us alone. Take us off your list.”

Mirage just barely managed to catch the door as the woman was slamming it. “Um,” she said, offering a smile, “I’m not here selling vacuums.”

The woman tried to yank the door shut, and Mirage tried to hold it open; it was a battle of wills. “Yeah, you guys have tried that little tactic before,” snapped the woman. “Ain’t gonna work again. Adios.”

“I’m _not_ selling vacuums!” Mirage insisted, trying not to get flustered. “I’m here to deliver a package to Tamara. It’s a matter of urgent national security.”

Just like that, the woman halted her attempts to close the door. She stood there, staring at Mirage blankly. “Oh. You’re here about… her old job.”

“Yes,” said Mirage in relief, smiling tightly. She held out the yellow package, and the woman took it, glancing at the envelope with a slight frown. “You are Tamara’s…?”

“Housemate. Three of us live here. You sure you want _Tamara?_ ” asked the woman suspiciously.

“Er, yes. Why do you ask?” Mirage’s curiosity was piqued.

The woman shrugged. “It’s just, if you superhero agency people were looking for anybody, I would figure you’d be looking for Scott. Well, whatever. I’ll give Tamara the package. Promise I won’t peek.”

 _Scott?_ Who was this mysterious Scott, and why was this woman implying that he was a superhero? And, indeed, was _this_ woman a hero herself? Hmm, how intriguing. Mirage would have to keep 591 Ward Road in mind for the future.

The “promise I won’t peek” was an empty sentiment. Even if the woman _did_ peek, there would be few potential consequences. Syndrome designed his tablets to read the faces of whichever curious cat managed to turn them on, and if their face did not match that of Mirage’s intended target, the tablet would simply… do nothing. Any further disturbances by people who _weren’t_ the intended target, and the tablet would self-destruct, leaving behind no evidence. There was no danger in that regard.

“Thank you,” she smoothly said to the woman. “Your cooperation is much appreciated.” With that, Mirage turned and left. Never stay in one location longer than she needed to. Never give a civilian the chance to memorize her face.

Four hours later, the phone rang in Mirage’s car. She answered immediately.

“Hello…?”

She trailed off, as she heard a commotion on the other end.

“Put that phone down!” ordered a deep, male voice. “You are not calling—”

“Maybe I already _did_ , Scott. And you know what, I should never have told you about this offer in the first place, I should’ve known you wouldn’t understand. It was a covert offer, I should never have told anybody. And you give me shit about everything, I should have known you’d give me shit about this. So why don’t you just fucking stuff your—”

The female voice was infuriated, and talked _astonishingly_ fast, so quickly that Mirage could barely make out the individual words. She was eventually interrupted by the male voice once again.

“Tam, I don’t wanna fight about this,” he said, now sounding tired. “So don’t get angry, and for god’s sake, don’t burn the house down again.”

“I—oh, am I on fire?” She now sounded chagrined. “Christ, sorry.”

“No, _I’m_ sorry I came at you like that. I just think this whole thing sounds very fishy, and I don’t think you should get involved. That’s my personal view. You’re an adult. You can do what you want.”

“You’re _damn_ right, I’m an adult and I can do what I want. And I’m not passing a chance like this up. Not after almost two decades of sitting around like a brain-dead couch potato stumbling through this half-assed waste I call a life. By the way, how do you think they found me? Do you think it was Harry? Aw, what am I saying, of course it was Harry. Who else is there?” She now sounded disappointed. “I never thought he’d betray me like that. That’s why I trusted him. He seemed trustworthy. He seemed like a good guy, one of the rare few genuine good guys out there. For all the time I worked with him, there wasn’t a moment I doubted he was a good guy. Maybe I’m just an idiot. Am I an idiot, Scott?”

“Is that a trick question?” he asked with supreme dryness.

“Yes. Answer it anyway.”

“No, I don’t think you’re an idiot, Tam. And I think pairing up with a reporter was a good thing for your public image. That was a smart move. But that was twenty years ago. Things have changed. _He’s_ changed. When was the last time you even talked to him?”

“Last week,” said Tamara with a sigh.

“Oh. I didn’t know you two were still friends.”

“Yeah. That’s what makes this sting. But maybe he didn’t give me up, after all. Maybe they hacked the NSA, or maybe they’re allowed access to my information because they’re part of the government, or something. I don’t know. I can’t pin this all on Harry.”

“Tamara.” The other voice sounded abruptly broken, vulnerable. “I don’t want you to go.”

She sighed. “Shit, I know you don’t, and I know you just want the best for me, but it’s not your choice. I’m going. I’ve made up my mind. No matter how much crap you give me.”

“I’m not giving you any more crap about it. It’s your life. Just don’t blame me when you come home in a body bag.”

Mirage could hear the cracked smile in Tamara’s voice. “People in body bags don’t tend to toss blame around, Scott.”

The phone went dead.

Five minutes later, the phone rang yet again, and Mirage picked up. “Hello?’

“Is this Mirage?”

“Yes, it is.”

“This is Blazestone,” said the confident female voice, which belonged to Tamara Corfas. “Sign me up.”

The jet blazed through the sky.

Blazestone, she of the pyrotechnic powers, sat across from Mirage, separated by that holographic grid. You would think a super with fiery abilities would wear a red suit, but Blazestone’s super suit was blue, consisting of a light blue body suit which came up around her head, a lighter blue S on the chest, a lighter blue screen over her eyes, darker navy boots, and a periwinkle bikini bottom. After so many years, it still fit her slender body like a glove, and she seemed to revel in wearing it again.

As the heroine spoke, her long blonde ponytail—streaked through with gray, now, and protruding from the top of her masked head—swayed with the sheer force of her words.

“So I went up to the attic and, well, I wasn’t even sure the thing was still up there, but I rooted around and around in all these old boxes and things until I finally dug it up, and I had to shake it off, because there was all this dust, and cobwebs too, but in the end, I think it turned out pretty great. I should’ve taken better care of it, but I couldn’t even stand to look at the damn thing. Crazy, right? Stupid, huh? Well, that’s just the way it was. I couldn’t even bear to look at my suit, because it reminded me of everything I was banned from doing, everything I loved to do. Am I talking too much? Tell me if I am.” With that, she finally shut up and peered at Mirage curiously.

The superheroine had an uncanny talent of talking a million miles a minute, much faster than Mirage had heard anyone else speak before. And she had _so much_ to say. Though honestly quite annoyed, Mirage reined in her tongue and gave Blazestone a blandly charming smile.

“Don’t worry, Blazestone. I understand completely about your suit. But for now, would you mind if we focused on the task at hand?”

Blazestone nodded. “Oh, right, the debrief. I’ll shut up for now. Give you a chance to talk.”

“Much appreciated. Now, look at this diagram…”

Mirage gave Blazestone the rundown of the Omnidroid, explaining its capabilities and limitations. With the weaker-powered heroes, such as Psycwave or Universal Man, it had been necessary to spin some elaborate lie about how their specific powers could defeat the Omnidroid. Because, speaking honesty, there was no other reason why such a weak super could be valuable, and even _they_ knew it. With Blazestone, no such lie was needed. With a 5.5 threat rating and an established history of melting evil robots to gooey pieces, it was entirely plausible that Blazestone could hold her own in a situation such as the one that Mirage was presenting to her.

Of course, she _wouldn’t_. The Omnidroid had been forged and tempered on a volcanic island, and Syndrome had used that fact to his advantage. It could stand—to an extent—extreme heat and fire. Blazestone might prove a worthy challenger, but in the end, Mirage had little doubt that the Omnidroid would emerge victorious.

But she’d been wrong before.

In any case, she gave Blazestone fair and accurate information about the Omnidroid, telling no lies about its abilities or flaws. The heroine listened silently—quite an achievement for her, Mirage gathered.

In the end, Blazestone nodded, smiling. “No offense to your engineers, but that hunk of metal isn’t gonna stand a chance. I’m gonna turn it into a pile of scrap.”

“Er, Blazestone…”

The heroine remembered herself. “Oops, sorry. Don’t worry, I remember what you told me: don’t destroy the robot, just deactivate it.” She grinned flirtatiously. “But hey, once I get out in the field, I might not be able to help myself…”

“Please _try_ to contain yourself,” said Mirage knowingly, offering a smile in return. “As I mentioned, the machine represents an investment in the hundreds of millions. It would be a shame if we lost it.”

She could see Blazestone’s intense eagerness to return to hero work, rising from her like a wave of heat. It was tragic. “Gotcha.”

Mirage joined Syndrome in the observation room, as was her custom. She was slightly more wary of him, ever since his comment before their meeting with the Russians, but she tried not to let it show. Quite a bit of her energies on Nomanisan Island were spent trying not to _let things show_.

“Ya made it,” he greeted her with his customary bland cheekiness as she entered the room. “Glad you could join me for the show.”

“I wouldn’t miss this show for the world,” she murmured demurely as she sat upon a nearby chair, regarding the screen, on which Blazestone was depicted walking calmly through the jungle. Nothing had happened to her yet. And she seemed to have no inkling of the horrors that awaited.

Something was wrong, though. Mirage couldn’t quite put her finger on it, and it took her several seconds to realize what was bothering her. She could hear… the wind rustling. Birds tweeting and calling. The distant roar of a waterfall. Blazestone’s footsteps, dull thuds and crunches along the jungle-bed.

“You added sound,” she said.

“Yup! Isn’t it great? We’ll be able to hear _everything_ ,” he said, with the dark reverence of an apostle about to witness his god perform a miracle.

“Everything,” Mirage repeated. The screams, the splattering gore… she didn’t particularly want to hear that, but she wasn’t going to let that show to Syndrome.

Syndrome wanted her to enjoy the show. He couldn’t make her do that, but she _did_ have to watch. And watch she would.

Blazestone kept walking, and eventually she emerged on the edge of the jungle. She looked down across the precipice of a high stone cliff. Below her, a vast field of magma, a stark orange contrast to the vibrant greens of the jungle. Mirage saw Blazestone grin.

“Fire. It’s her friend,” she remarked to Syndrome.

“Yup, but I never heard whether she can use fire of _other_ origins. She can generate her own, but could she control the magma? I guess we’ll see.”

Blazestone walked along the edge of the cliff until she reached an area of sloping rock that led towards the field of magma. She began to carefully edge downwards, moving slowly to avoid tumbling down the steep slope.

“I guess she’s trying to get the Omnidroid on her own playing field,” Syndrome said, eyes glowing with interest. “Hmm. Maybe she _can_ use the magma to her advantage…”

Suddenly, a crash in the jungle behind her. The bird-camera’s gaze shot toward the jungle, where trees were crashing down, signaling the Omnidroid’s arrival. The view jerked back toward Blazestone, who was now stumbling quickly downwards, moving as fast as she could without falling. 

“The Omnidroid can move so much more stealthily than that,” Mirage commented. “Why did it make those noises?”

“My guess? It announced its arrival in the hopes of making her lose her balance and fall into the lava. Remember, it doesn’t know about her capabilities yet. That’s where the _learning_ part comes in,” Syndrome smiled.

The bird-camera soared into the air, giving Syndrome and Mirage a literal bird’s-eye view of the proceedings. Arriving at the edge of where the rock became magma, Blazestone stopped. Anyone else, had they been so close to the searing heat of the superhot liquid, would have been unable to stand it, but Blazestone was heat-resistant and withstood the temperature with ease. She stood there in a defensive position, watching as the Omnidroid stood at the jungle’s edge impassively.

“What is it doing?” Mirage asked, befuddled.

“It’ll be a hard job for the ’droid to make its way down the slope. Y’know, because it’s so steep and everything. The robot’s trying to figure out how it can make the trip without slipping and damaging itself.” She saw the cogs and gears begin to turn in Syndrome’s head. “Hmm, maybe I should design a bot that can roll… save us from this issue in the future…”

Unwilling to wait for the Omnidroid to reach her, Blazestone attacked first. Though they were many yards apart from each other, the super lifted her hands confidently and sent two spiky, blinding blasts of white-hot fire up the hill towards the robot. They struck home, and the robot was blown backwards with a loud, metallic boom.

“Nice!” crowed Syndrome. “I made a good choice, huh? Huh?” Mirage remained silent, her eyes not leaving the screen.

Blazestone stalked a few steps forward and stopped, staring at the jungle. Mirage realized that from Blazestone’s vantage point, she could not see what had happened to the robot, and was waiting for it to emerge once again. From Mirage and Syndrome’s view, however, they could see that the Omnidroid had been blown back into the jungle, felling a few more trees. It was currently struggling to right itself.

“Come on, you junky metal fucker!” Blazestone yelled cockily.

“C’mon, robot,” Syndrome muttered to himself, transfixed by the sight of the Omnidroid attempting to right itself.

A few moments later, the robot managed to push itself back onto its feet, and once again walked to the edge of the jungle. There, it did not hesitate. It threw itself down, rolling on its cylindrical side towards Blazestone. The sound of the metal robot rolling against the volcanic stone produced a great roaring sound, and Blazestone’s eyes widened in utter terror.

“It _learned_ that it can get back on its feet if it falls!” Syndrome cried in delight. “Holy shit, Mirage! I love it!”

“Indeed, very nice,” she said, watching the drama unfold on the screen.

Blazestone had thrown herself towards a small floating rock in the midst of the lake of lava, where she’d just barely managed to land. Now, she was furiously paddling in the lava, trying to propel herself further away from the shore. She only paddled with one arm at a time, quickly withdrawing it after only a few seconds and alternating with the other arm, while her face screwed up, as though she was in pain.

“Huh—I guess some things are too hot even for Blazestone,” Syndrome said with a gleeful smile. “Look, it’s hurting her. I’ll be damned.”

“So will I,” Mirage said simply, and meant it.

It didn’t deter the Omnidroid. The thing had rolled straight to the edge of the lava, and managed to stop itself from rolling into the magma with one outstretched claw digging into the rock, preventing it from rolling any further. Now, it once again struggled to right itself, and once again managed to do so within a minute. The menacing cylindrical robot reached out impassively. Though she was paddling with furor, Blazestone wasn’t far away enough, yet. The robot managed to grab her around the legs and yank her away from her safe little island, but as it whipped her through the air, she sent a blast of fire flying out from her hands. The fire grazed the robot, and once again it dropped her. She landed just at the edge of the lava, with a thud and a loud, pained groan, but immediately stumbled to her feet yet again, despite clearly being in a large amount of pain.

Once again she raised her hands, sending a huge starburst of fire towards the Omnidroid, which attempted to stand firm against her assault. She slowly circled it, keeping a steady stream of fire blasting toward the robot, until the Omnidroid was between her and the lake of lava. Then, she increased her assault, strengthening the fiery blast of her hands and stalking towards the robot until it could no longer resist. The Omnidroid staggered backwards into the lava and fell, and was swallowed by its depths.

“Wow!” said Syndrome, seeming genuinely pleased. 

“Do you think that’s it?” demanded Mirage. “Has she won?” She didn’t particularly like Blazestone, but she didn’t dislike her either, and the idea of Blazestone triumphing against the robot rather than being brutally torn apart didn’t sound terrible to Mirage.

“Maybe,” admitted Syndrome. “The robot can withstand lava, sure, but… an entire fuckin’ _bath_ of lava? I don’t know about that. Its metal might not be strong enough. We’ll see.”

Blazestone might have won. She might have been able to walk away from the situation, proud as a peacock, and survive for another little while—at least, until Mirage came for her again. But she didn’t. Instead, the heroine proudly sauntered towards the edge of the magma lake, and planted her hands firmly on her hips, grinning downwards.

“How do you like that, you junky bastard? Huh?”

Mirage felt a jolt of uneasiness. If she’d been there, she would have warned Blazestone to move.

“She’s cocky,” Syndrome said, smirking. “I like her.”

“Perhaps _too_ cocky. Maybe—”

Mirage didn’t get the chance to finish her sentence. Out of the lava shot a metal arm, coated and turned red-hot by the glowing liquid, and grasped Blazestone around the legs. She was able to emit a blood-curdling scream before the robot dragged her under the surface, and both became invisible to Mirage and Syndrome’s eyes.

“Holy Christ,” said Syndrome.

Mirage said nothing, and she and her boss watched for one minute. Two minutes. Three minutes.

Syndrome said, “Okay, she’s dead. She might be able to survive the heat, but shit, she can’t _breathe_ under there.”

“Will she float to the surface…?” Mirage uncomfortably questioned, unaware of how lava physics worked.

“I honestly don’t know. Wish I did. Hell, I’m not waiting around to find out.” Syndrome lifted his wrist, around which was encircled the robot’s remote. He pressed a few buttons, and the Omnidroid slowly rose to the surface, clawing its way out of the lava. It was an eerie sight to see—the robot coated with red-hot, glowing magma, clearly quite damaged, yet still operational. The bot was only able to use one claw to assist its emergence from the lake, because the other claw was gripping Blazestone around her thighs. She flopped, quite obviously dead. Though she was unburnt, her eyes were wide, pointing in different directions and seeing nothing; her tongue hung from her mouth. It was not _quite_ as gruesome as the deaths to which Mirage was accustomed, but it was still unpleasant.

“She put up a pretty good fight,” Syndrome reflected. “Hell, for a minute there, I almost thought she’d win. I guess the Omnidroid staying under the lava was just a ruse. A pretty clever ruse, if I do say so myself. The machine’s learning. That much is for sure.”

“It certainly is.”

Syndrome shrugged, as careless as ever. “Well, I’m going to dinner. Send out a crew to clean that mess up.”

 _That mess_ was Blazestone.

“Oh, and Mirage… who were you thinking about targeting next? Just preliminary, early-stages, you understand. Gimme a name.”

“I don’t have a name, but when I found Blazestone, she was living with another man. I have evidence to believe he, too, is a super. Since I already know where he is located, wouldn’t it make sense to target him?”

Syndrome smiled. “Well, now I’m interested. Come to dinner when you’re done giving instructions to the team. I’d love to hear all about it.” With a sweep of his cape, he exited the room, leaving Mirage alone.

As she absent-mindedly relayed instructions through her walkie-talkie—instructions which, by now, had become second nature to her—Mirage thought about Harry and Scott. Would one of them notice that their friend was missing? If they did, would it even matter?


	9. IX: Amante (Downburst)

Mirage knew she had to act quickly.

Unlike their other targets, Blazestone had told someone—her roommate, Scott—everything about her invitation to Nomanisan. It remained unknown whether Scott was a super—and if he was, which super he was exactly—but Mirage had her suspicions. From interviews and released NSA files, she knew which superheroes had been close to Blazestone, and she knew that Scott was certainly not Frozone. That left one other likely option: Downburst.

Downburst had been a powerful super, though he commanded little respect among his peers, due to arriving late to the game and having relatively little control over his powers. He had also carried a torch for Blazestone—a well-known, widely-mocked, but entirely unrequited crush. Nonetheless, the two had been close friends during their time as supers. If any superhero was likely to have a close relationship with Blazestone even today, it was Downburst.

(Frozone, who had once been a romantic partner of the fiery super, was another likely option; but Mirage had heard some of his voice clips, and they did not match those of Scott. In any case, Frozone was another target that Mirage intended to present to Syndrome sometime in the future. Just not now.)

In any case, regardless of whether or not Scott was a superhero, he knew where his roommate Tamara had gone, and why—and when he realized she wasn’t coming back, his suspicions would be ignited. Whether or not he was a super, Mirage had to do something about him. Quickly. She didn’t know how much information he and Tamara had shared with their other housemate, but if she knew too much, she would have to be taken care of, as well.

After she brief Syndrome on all this information over dinner, he said through a mouthful of lasagna, “What are you gonna do? Kill ’em?”

“One way or the other, I suppose,” she said flatly. She didn’t particularly enjoy killing, but she would ensure the woman’s death was painless. If it had to be done, it had to be done. As for the man, if he was indeed Downburst, his death would be spectacular.

“Mm. Listen, _don’t_ kill the female unless you know for sure that she knows too much,” Syndrome commanded. “We don’t want a body trail to follow us on the mainland.”

“Quite right. I wasn’t planning on it.”

With fork and knife, she sawed a small piece off her plate of lasagna and took a dainty bite, a neat contrast to Syndrome’s face-shoving method. He spoke again as she chewed.

“I’ve been thinking about some modifications for the ’droid. I’d like to go back to wheels.”

“Why?” she asked, curious. “I thought you abandoned the wheels last time…”

“…because of Macroburst’s wind powers,” he finished her sentence, smiling. “Yeah, but Downburst doesn’t _have_ wind powers. I actually don’t think we’re going to encounter another super with similar abilities. The wheels were a pretty good attribute—allowed the machine to locomote faster. Also, I think I’d like to try out a unidirectional sensory array for a change.”

“So what are you going to do?” Mirage questioned. “Design a new Omnidroid in time for Downburst’s arrival? Because I simply don’t think we have the time.”

“Nah,” he dismissed the idea, waving his hand. “Downburst can battle the v.X2. It’s a perfectly adequate machine. Just, some future ideas I’ve got kicking around the ol’ can.”

“Hmm. Well, whatever modifications you make, I am sure they will be excellent,” she said before taking another bite of lasagna.

His smile became predatory. “Are you try’na butter me up, Mirage? ’Cos it’s working.”

“Do I ever do anything _other_ than buttering you up?” she muttered with mock-annoyance. It was a true sentiment, but expressed with carefulness. She couldn’t be too pushy with Syndrome. He was still dangerous, and she must always remember that. Playful ribbing, however innocent, must be done with restraint.

His comment before their meeting with the Russians— _I think you’re overestimating how much of this relationship is about what you want_ —still reverberated in her head. That small, brief comment, so simple and perhaps harmless, could end up being deadly. Perhaps Syndrome was becoming dissatisfied with the balance of power in their relationship—him holding the reins in all other areas, but Mirage having all the power in the bedroom. Perhaps Syndrome was growing displeased with her. Perhaps he was planning to fight back.

She lived in near-constant fear—not intense, just like a warning buzz in the back of her mind at all times. She must be cautious of Syndrome. Always.

“C’mon, babe, don’t underestimate yourself,” her boss was saying with a smirk. “You do lots of things around here. For real.” His smirk faded away and his face became intense, and he leaned forward—his chest and stomach brushing against his food, leaving lasagna stains on the front of his costume, though he didn’t seem to notice—and stared at her intently. “For _real_ , Mirage. If it wasn’t for you, I’d probably still be thinking about my plan today, but wouldn’t have actually fucking _done_ anything about it. I hired you to help me make my scheme a reality, and you did that. Damn, did you ever _do_ that. Joking aside, you’re pretty much indispensable. I hope you know that.”

She estimated that his words were said in earnestness, and though she was still wary of him, she couldn’t help but feel a little warm at his praise. Maybe she _wasn’t_ in any particular danger, after all. “Thank you,” she demurred, “but we both know Kronos is your brainchild. I’m just the assistant.”

“Well, yeah,” he said, leaning back in his seat and looking down at his stained clothing with distaste. “We do both know that.”

She found Downburst with ease. After all, she already knew where he lived.

She returned to 186 Spring Street at two pm, a mere two days after Blazestone’s death. This time, Mirage knocked on the door outright. She had a different plan for Scott. A much more interesting plan.

She’d done some research earlier that day. Nothing complex, just some scanning through newspapers and phone books at the local library and archives. The man who lived in this house was named Dr. Scott Salant. He was forty-six, a physician—both facts fit with what Mirage knew about Downburst. Then, the kicker. After digging through many newspapers, she found one that showed Scott Salant in a photo on the front, smiling alongside several other members of his amateur curling team, which had apparently won some sort of national championship. From her messenger bag, Mirage produced a glossy photograph of Downburst, comparing the two. Downburst wore a mask, and the photo of Salant was small and grainy, but nonetheless, Mirage instantly knew they were the same man. Bingo.

Now, she waited patiently at the doorstep of the same house where she’d entrapped Tamara Jean Corfas. Once again, the woman, the third housemate, opened the door and regarded Mirage with suspicion.

“Oh. It’s you again.”

“Yes. It’s good to see you again, Ms. Hong.” (She’d found Chelsea Hong’s name in the phone book, alongside those of Salant and Corfas.) “Again, this is a matter of national security. I must speak with Dr. Salant. Is he here?”

This time, Chelsea didn’t hesitate; no talk of vacuum salesmen today. “Sure. C’mon in. He’s upstairs. I’ll get him for you.”

Mirage waited in their small, messy living room while Chelsea bounded up the nearby staircase. Not a minute later, a man descended. Chelsea was not with him.

Downburst, unlike some of the other supers Mirage had met, had maintained his impressive physique during his fifteen years of superhero “retirement.” Dr. Salant was very handsome and still youthful-looking, oval of face and square of chin, with a mop of black hair and a body that was sculpted even under his baggy green T-shirt and jeans. Mirage instantly estimated that he was, by _far_ , the most attractive super she’d targeted. She suspected Syndrome would agree. Hell, anyone with a pulse would agree.

He stopped at the bottom of the staircase and didn’t go any further, looking at Mirage with wary eyes. “Has something happened to Tamara?” was his first question.

“Before we speak, I need to know that nobody else is listening. Is your housemate out of earshot?”

He shook his head. “I asked Chelsea to stay upstairs. She doesn’t need to hear this.”

“Good. As a civilian, she should not be subject to what we’re about to discuss.” This was Mirage’s subtle way of confirming whether Ms. Hong was a civilian, though she suspected nothing else.

Judging by Downburst’s reaction, she was correct. He nodded. “You’re right; she shouldn’t be. Now, tell me, please, what’s happened? Is Tamara all right?”

She could tell he didn’t trust her. Smart man. “ _Blazestone_ ,” she said pointedly, “is the reason why I am here. As you know, we invited Tamara to do some hero work for us, by containing a rampaging artificially-intelligent robot on our island. Unfortunately, things have gone wrong.”

He blanched. “What happened?”

Mirage would use Blazestone like a carrot on a stick. “Blazestone was very nearly successful in defeating the robot. She fought valiantly; you need to know that. But unfortunately, during the last portion of their battle, she became badly injured.”

All color leached from his face, the doctor sank down onto a nearby sofa, staring into the distance. “She got cocky, didn’t she? I knew this would happen.” He looked up at Mirage, and she almost felt sorry for him. “Tell me she’s still alive. Please.”

“As far as our scouts can tell, she lives.”

There was no sign of relief on Dr. Salant’s face. “ _But?_ ” he questioned.

“But the Omnidroid has taken her to a makeshift lair on the southern half of the island. The machine is an artificial intelligence, and we believe it is attempting to hold Blazestone for ransom. Otherwise, its reason for not killing her remains unclear.”

“For ransom?” Scott echoed, frowning with confusion. “But what could it possibly hope for in exchange?”

“For everyone to evacuate the island and cease our attempts to destroy it,” Mirage replied. “It wants survival, plain and simple. At least, that’s what we believe.”

“So. You need my help.” A statement, not a question.

“Yes.”

“You want me to come to your island, rescue Tamara and destroy the machine.”

“Yes,” she repeated with a smile. Quick man.

She expected Dr. Salant to make some witty comment, such as “But why would I trust you?” or “How can you prove you’re telling the truth?” He said nothing of the sort. Instead, he immediately stood up.

“Let’s go. No time to waste.”

Loyal like a dog, and he’d suffer for it.

Onboard the jet, she had already debriefed Downburst on everything he needed to know; the super had listened silently and intently, soaking up every word. She told no lies, except for her fib that the robot had taken Blazestone hostage, which was, of course, not the case. Everything else she told Downburst was true.

Now, they were sitting in the luxurious cockpit area of the automated jet. Downburst, like Blazestone, wore a blue costume: a blue leotard with blue boots, black gloves and belt, a black ski-style mask, and a black cape with silver trimming. He cut quite the handsome figure. The super ate and drank nothing that was offered to him. Although he _did_ accept a non-alcoholic mimosa, he simply clenched the stem in his hand, not drinking the beverage. Mirage supposed his stomach must be churning: in anticipation for the battle he’d face, in fear for Tamara’s fate. He still didn’t trust Mirage, that was for certain. Good on him. That was a smart thing to do.

“Nerves?” she asked, gesturing to the untouched drink and offering an understanding smile.

He gingerly set the mimosa down on the small table next to his seat. “I’m sorry to waste a drink. I just don’t think I can consume anything right now. Uh, it won’t spill, will it?”

“No. The jet is designed to offer the smoothest ride possible on the current market. Nothing will spill. No need to worry.”

“Not even when we’re landing?” he asked reluctantly.

“Not even then.”

He sighed, and she could clearly see the fear in him. “I can’t stop thinking about Tamara,” he admitted, then laughed awkwardly. “Heck, _that’s_ nothing new. It’s just, I keep thinking about her out there in the jungle. Alone, injured, scared out of her mind…”

“I understand your fear, but it won’t help. Think about something else, to calm yourself,” she encouraged him. “Tell me about Tamara. How did you end up living with her, if you two are not romantically attached?”

“We were never _romantically attached_. We were friends, though. We were always friends. In the early days, we only knew each other as heroes—didn’t know one another’s identities. After hero work was outlawed, we decided to reconnect as civilians.” He was gazing far away, at something Mirage couldn’t see—into the past. “I remember. On our last night as heroes, she told me to meet her at this local bar. That night, hero work was officially made illegal. The next day, I walked into the bar without my mask. I felt so weirdly naked. There she was, sitting at a table. Eating a cheeseburger.” He snorted. “I still remember that damn cheeseburger. And she wasn’t wearing a mask, either. I sat down across from her, and we really _looked_ at each other for the first time…”

“It sounds like you had something special,” Mirage gently prodded.

“ _Have_ ,” he corrected sharply. “She’s still alive.”

“I apologize.” How could she be so stupid? “Please continue.”

“What more is there to say? We were friends. We lived together because we were friends. She’s the best thing in my life.”

 _She’s the best thing in my life_ didn’t exactly suggest friendship to Mirage, but she didn’t press the issue. She was well-acquainted, from old interviews and dossiers, with Downburst’s unrequired affection for Blazestone. Clearly, in these ensuing decades, the fire hadn’t dimmed. She wondered if Downburst and Blazestone had ever been friends with benefits, but for obvious reasons, she didn’t ask him about this possibility. No use opening old wounds.

“What about your other roommate?” she asked. “Ms. Hong? She is not a super, and yet she’s aware of you and Blazestone…”

Downburst exhaled, looking guilty. “I should never have asked her to live with us. Chelsea was my secretary at my old office, and she lost her house. She had nowhere else to go. When she moved in with me and Tam, we decided we’d be forthcoming with her. About being supers, I mean. From several years of working with her, I knew we could trust her, and so far, she hasn’t betrayed our trust. It’s nice having somebody who really _knows_ who you are, but at the same time, I feel she’s been put in danger by that knowledge.”

“By whom, exactly?”

“I don’t know. I just have a nagging feeling that knowing we’re supers has put her in danger.” He laughed, but it was a breathless, humorless laugh. “Not from the NSA, though. When our case agent showed up and we told him that Chelsea knew about us, he was all prepared to wipe her memory, but I told him in no uncertain that that wasn’t going to happen. He backed off. I’m pretty sure we’re a unique case, but it works. I wouldn’t trade my living situation for the world.”

Mirage imagined how that case agent had felt, being threatened by two supers like Blazestone and Downburst. Blazestone, with a threat rating of 5.5, was no weakling herself. Downburst, however? Threat rating of _six_ -point-five. And he was capable of reshaping organic matter—a rather frightening power, especially if you were on the receiving end of his anger. No, Mirage could certainly imagine why the NSA would be afraid of crossing this super.

“It seems like you’ve built a comfortable civilian life for yourself,” she said kindly. “I want you to know that I’m rooting for you. I sincerely hope you’re able to rescue Tamara without any further injury to her or yourself, and that you can return home and live your lives in peace.”

“So do I, Mirage,” said Downburst, staring out the window at the ocean and skyline that rushed toward them. And she knew that, despite his lack of trust in her, Downburst wasn’t going to shirk this mission. He would obey her unquestioningly, if it was all for Tamara.

As she entered the observation room, Syndrome turned to her. “So, what do you think of him?”

“Downburst? He’s a nice man,” she replied, sitting down on a nearby chair. “Unflinchingly loyal to Blazestone. He came along with me, without a second thought. I know he doesn’t trust me—he’s not naïve—but nonetheless, he came.”

“Huh. Too bad for him.” Syndrome turned toward the screen. Displayed there was Downburst, making his way through the lush, viridescent jungle with the bird-camera watching closely, just like so many others before him. “What about that, uh, lady?” he asked, snapping his fingers to try and remember. “What did you do about her?”

“Ms. Hong, you mean. I ascertained that she knows nothing, so I left her alone. She’ll doubtless be surprised and dismayed when both of her roommates fail to return home, but she has nothing to go on. No way to track me down.”

“Good. That’s great. Good job, Mirage.”

She tried not to bask in the nugget of praise. She failed.

On the screen, Downburst was pushing his way past ferns and other leaves. “Where is the robot?” Mirage asked.

“Far away, for now. Approaching, though.” Syndrome cracked a grin. “I actually hope the super _wins_ , y’know? Because then I get to redesign the ’bot.”

“But then, what will we do about Downburst? We can’t do the same thing we did with Macroburst when they succeeded against the robot,” she pointed out. “Downburst will be too suspicious. Never mind the fact that Downburst expects to find Blazestone alive, and that will not happen…”

“Eh, don’t worry. I already took care of that.”

A sudden burst of wariness flared in Mirage, for reasons she couldn’t quite understand. “What do you mean?”

“I had some of our guys plant her body out there. Y’know, to fit with the story you told him. He’ll think the ’droid killed her days ago. Hey, it’s less suspicious than not finding her at all, don’t you agree?”

“I suppose,” said Mirage. Inwardly, she couldn’t help but feel terrible for poor Downburst. Mirage wasn’t sentimental, but Downburst seemed like a decent man, and he was certainly beyond infatuated with Blazestone, and the idea of him stumbling on her corpse while Mirage watched… It was rather unpleasant.

On the screen, Downburst had entered a large open clearing, which ended with a high stone cliff that was covered with green moss. Downburst went to the edge of the cliff and looked out over the island, the jungle spread out before him. Scanning the horizon for signs of the Omnidroid, no doubt.

“Can he see the robot from there?” she questioned.

“Nope.”

Downburst evidently concluded the same. He stepped away from the cliff, heading back into the trees behind him.

“But,” Syndrome commented, “he’s getting pretty close to the body.”

“Is he?” she murmured, trying not to betray her disquiet.

“Uh-huh. It’s just, uh, a couple hundred meters to the west.”

“And if he doesn’t find it?”

“Oh, he’ll find it,” said Syndrome. “Anyway, I think it’s about time we got this show started, don’t you?” With that, he pressed a succession of buttons on his wrist-remote.

Within a minute, the distant sounds of thumping footsteps became apparent, and Downburst stopped his journey into the jungle, standing totally still as he listened. As he became certain that the sounds were real and were approaching him, Downburst did not run away; rather, he broke into a sprint, crashing through the jungle underbrush _towards_ the thumping noises.

“Brave guy,” remarked Syndrome in admiration. “Not that it’ll make much difference in the end.”

Man and machine approached one another, and before long, the Omnidroid crashed through the jungle.

The battle did not last long. It barely lasted thirty seconds. Within those thirty seconds, Downburst stood his ground, a look of total, furious determination on his face, legs firmly planted on the earth below him, and hands raised in the air.

The Omnidroid stopped charging toward him. It stopped moving at all. Within those thirty seconds, the machine had been totally crushed. Its metal rippled, creaked, groaned, split, and curved in on itself, until what had once been a multi-million-dollar piece of equipment was nothing less than a clump of steel alloy on the ground, its shape resembling crumpled tissue paper. The two arms and two legs stuck from the remains at odd angles.

Syndrome was silent throughout it all. Mirage, too; she barely breathed. When it was over, and the robot was clearly no longer operational, Downburst paid no more attention to it. He began to sprint through the jungle once again, calling desperately, “Tam! Tam! Tamara, please answer me! The robot’s gone; you’re safe to come out! Tamara, can you hear me? Please!”

As the bird-camera soared behind Downburst, following his journey through the forest and documenting his cries, Syndrome turned to Mirage, a slow but widening smile spreading across his face. He beamed at her. “Jesus Christ, Mirage, I think we found ourselves another winner. That was spectacular. I honestly feel honored that I even got to watch that. Man, that was amazing!”

Mirage was just glad that Syndrome was happy, rather than angry. “Yes, indeed. That was something to witness. But how will you ensure that Downburst finds what remains of Blazestone?”

“Eh, don’t worry about it. He’s heading right for her, anyway. He’ll find her.”

True enough, within a few minutes, the superhero burst through the trees, emerging in a clear area where the jungle brush led to a beach, followed by the crystal blue waters of a small lagoon. The camera followed him as he yelled, “Tam—”

His eyes found the unnaturally-still shape that lay on the beach, the water cresting over her legs. “Oh, Jesus,” he cried before running over to the lifeless body. He only tried shaking her for a few moments before giving up; it was clear to anyone, much less a doctor, that Blazestone would not be waking up. The tropical heat of Nomanisan had not exactly done wonders for the corpse’s complexion. By now, she had rotted.

“Oh… Tam,” he said. No tears, barely any emotion; it was as though everything had drained from him, leaving the super a mere shell. “Why did you have to go? I told you. I _told_ you.”

Mirage felt desolate and dirty. Somehow, no other “job” she’d done with Syndrome had ever made her feel worse. Not Macroburst, not Universal Man, not even Psycwave. She tried her best not to let it show, though, and her best was very good indeed.

Downburst made his way back to the civilized portion of the island. He treaded slowly through the jungle, and eventually found the cleared stone path that led back to the main area; this he followed, eyes empty and sad. It eventually led him to the hotel, where Mirage sat at one of the numerous umbrella-covered tables on the fenced patio, waiting for him.

She stood immediately as she saw him emerge from the jungle. During his trek back, she and Syndrome had devised a plan to deal with him.

“Downburst,” she greeted the super with appropriate gusto and a wide smile. “You survived. Did you defeat the robot?”

“I did,” he replied, voice heavy and hollow.

She donned an expression of concern. “What’s the matter?”

“It’s Blazestone. She’s… she wasn’t alive when I found her.”

“Oh, no,” said Mirage in pretend horror. “Oh, god, I’m sorry, Downburst. We had so hoped that you’d be able to recover her alive.”

She saw how her words acted like a gut punch. “So did I,” he said, and she sensed he was about to fall apart.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she tried to soothe him. “Now that the threat is gone, we’ll send our men into the forest and recover her body. You can put her to rest, respectfully and with the honor she deserved. Please think of yourself as a hero, Downburst. You stopped the Omnidroid for us.”

“Yeah,” he said, simply and dejectedly. “Sure. I’d like to go home now.”

“Unfortunately, you can’t. The Omnidroid’s core is nuclear-powered. You’ll need to remain on Nomanisan for a few days while we ensure you were not contaminated.”

If possible, he looked even more devastated. “No, Mirage, please. I can’t stay here a second longer. Please, let me go home.”

He wasn’t the man she’d known before. He was broken, and his pleading was pathetic. She felt a pang of pity for him, and tried fervently to quench it.

“I’m sorry, Scott,” she said gently. “I truly am. It’s only for three days. Then, you’re free to return to the mainland. You have my word.”

She was trapping him on the island where he would die.

He only stared at her, eyes unseeing. “All right,” he said. “Fine. What do I do now?”

“Please feel free to make use of the hotel’s facilities. For your safety and the safety of everyone else, we’ll be asking you to stay in your room for now. When we are ready for you, you’ll be summoned. Then, you’ll be tested for contamination.”

In reality, Syndrome was using this excuse to buy time. During that bought time, he was going to throw together a new machine. A new Omnidroid. It was a personal test of his skill, his endurance, his intellect. Could even the mighty Buddy Pine, in three days, assemble an improved Omnidroid that could withstand the assault of a super who had crushed its predecessor in seconds?

If you listened to Syndrome, he could. And he would. He had no doubt.

On the first day, Mirage said quietly to Syndrome, “I feel for him. I do.” It was an admission that was quite uncommon for her—a sign of weakness, a quality which Syndrome could not stand. Her boss glanced at her over the dinner table and said, “Damn, me too.”

On the second day, she did not even _see_ Syndrome. Not a single glimpse. He was elsewhere on the island—designing, creating, tinkering, supervising assembly. He worked for forty-nine straight hours without a single break for sleep.

On the third day, she didn’t see him until seven that evening. She was sitting in her personal sauna, wood walls and steam surrounding her, and was almost asleep, when the door creaked open and Syndrome poked his head in. “Wanna see it?” he said, and she replied, “ _Sí_.”

Syndrome took Mirage to a place she rarely visited: his work space. Located in an area deep below the volcano, it was a massive, dim, cavernous room, with metal walls that stretched so high that Mirage was struck with vertigo trying to trace them. The room was divided into various sections where Syndrome worked on various projects. In one area, a metal saw whirred and screeched loudly, spraying red sparks into the air, as a masked workman worked upon an improved monorail pod which Syndrome had designed. In another area, several cylindrical objects sat alone, covered with a shroud; Mirage knew well what they were—missiles, Syndrome’s specialty. Other designs were littered through the room: anti-gravity boots, weaponized gloves, camouflage devices so advanced that any military in the world would drool at the chance to get hold of them. But mostly weapons. That was Syndrome’s speciality.

And in the center of the room, the most fearsome weapon of all.

Syndrome and Mirage stood at the top of a short staircase leading down into the room, with Syndrome leaning against the stairs’ metal railing and grinning proudly at his new Omnidroid.

“You put that together in three days?” Mirage questioned, wrapping her arms around herself and feeling oddly uneasy.

“Indeed,” Syndrome replied arrogantly, running a hand through his hair. “Took a hell of a lot of work and manpower, but yup. Not _entirely_ from scratch, though. I had another prototype lying around, a shitty unused one, and I just reworked it. A _lot_.”

“So what’s the difference?”

“Well, I did everything I told you I wanted to do,” he said, regarding the Omnidroid with fierce pride. “New wheels, new sensory array. Also, the limbs have more joints, allowing for more ease of movement. The claws have increased strength behind them—their force is proportionally comparable to a rat’s jaw, and…” He chuckled. “If you know anything about rats, you know that’s something. And I may have made a few more little tweaks and adjustments here and there. Altogether, it’s a better machine. And—this is the most important part, Mirage, and the part that took the most time—I developed a new metal alloy.”

“A new alloy?” she asked in disbelief, turning to face her boss fully. She wasn’t incredibly well-acquainted with engineering, but she did know this was quite an achievement.

“Yup!” he crowed, grinning. “Downburst sure had an easy time crushing the last ’droid with his matter manipulation powers, so I made some major modifications. The new material is far denser, stronger, able to resist literal tons of force. Took a lotta brainpower on my part, but eh…” He shrugged nonchalantly. “I made it work.”

“And you are certain this material can withstand Downburst’s powers?”

“Babe,” he said with a wink, “one hundred percent.”

And he was right.

Like Macroburst, a lamb to the slaughter, Mirage led Downburst to his doom. Syndrome might be Death, but she was the grim reaper.

She went to the hotel’s luxurious lobby and buzzed Downburst’s room, informing him that his decontamination was scheduled to take place that day, and would he please come downstairs and meet her. He did within minutes, dressed sharply in his super costume. She supposed he must be eager to leave Nomanisan Island, and she couldn’t blame him.

She led him to a monopod transportation device just outside the hotel, and they both climbed inside. The pod whizzed along the tracks at near-lightspeed, carrying them comfortably across the island. Downburst seemed supremely uncomfortable, twitching and shifting. His eyes were so sad, and again, Mirage felt terrible for him. Was she getting soft? She’d killed before. But she couldn’t get his image—leaning over Blazestone’s body, asking her _Why did you have to go?—_ out of her stupid head.

As they continued down the line, she said truthfully, “I am sorry, Downburst. I’m sorry you had to find Blazestone that way. I’m sorry you couldn’t save her and bring her home. I wish your experience on this island could’ve been a little more positive.”

The apology wasn’t enough to heal her conscience. Not by a long shot.

Downburst didn’t reply, only nodded. He kept staring out the window, watching jungle trees and lagoons and rock formations pass by. Mirage wished fervently that she didn’t have to kill him, but kept reminding herself of those damn dollar signs. Because it all came down to this: Syndrome was paying her _so much money_ to be a killer.

When they finally exited, she led Downburst to a cleared area in the jungle, told him to wait, that the decontam process would begin shortly. Then, she watched from a safe area as the Omnidroid emerged suddenly from a hidden door in a nearby rock face, charging at Downburst. It was over in moments, pincers impaled through his chest and back. He didn’t even try to fight. 

“Boring,” Syndrome proclaimed it, then launched eagerly into a description of the Omnidroid’s modifications. Mirage tried to listen. She really did. But she was tired of hearing all the different ways the robot could kill.


	10. X: Los Dientes Apretados (Hypershock)

Syndrome wasn’t happy with her.

Mirage didn’t know what it was—and as the sort of woman who prided herself on being able to read people like they were picture books, this was especially unnerving. It was the little things. He was snappish, less likely to listen to Mirage’s ideas. He didn’t come to her for sex so often anymore, and if he did, their “sessions” were now dominated by him: whining, ordering her around, taking more control than ever before. He didn’t eat dinner with her so often, either; previously he’d seemed to enjoy her company, but now, he ate his meals alone in his labs or workrooms. She was left by herself, in the too-big and too-dark dining room with a giant wall of lava providing the only light, slowly sliding along beside her, the utter silence emphasizing how damn alone she was.

It wasn’t that she _missed_ his incessant chatter, the cat-and-mouse game that their conversations were… well, maybe she missed them a little, but that wasn’t the point. The point was this. She had fallen out of favor. She did not know why. She did not know what she could do to claw her way back into Syndrome’s good graces. She was effectively flailing blind in the dark.

And if Syndrome decided he’d had enough of her, she’d be gone faster than the snap of his fingers.

For their next target, she had decided upon Stormicide. A relatively weak superhero, Stormicide possessed no powers that would help her in any way against the Omnidroid; finishing her would be quick work, an easy victory. Perhaps easy enough to raise Syndrome’s spirits, after the challenge that Downburst had posed.

Again, as it turned out, she’d read him wrong.

Syndrome came into her office one day, while she was on hold on the phone, receiver pressed against her ear, doing preliminary research into Stormicide’s current location. Her boss barged in, flame-orange hair more prominent than ever, and impatiently sliced his white-gloved hand across his throat, signalling for her to end the call. In any other situation, she would’ve rolled her eyes and disobeyed; such was their relationship. Given their circumstances of late, though, she thought it would be a bad idea to invite Syndrome’s displeasure. She hung up the phone immediately.

“What is it?”

He spoke over her. “I got your note. _Stormicide_?”

Her employer said the name with such displeasure that Mirage felt a knife of fear slash in her belly. She kept herself quite calm, quite neutral. “Yes. Stormicide. I thought—”

Syndrome interrupted. “Mirage, babe. I get that you’re smart, I get that you’re experienced with this shit by now, but I’m forced to question your judgement anyway, because you cannot be _fucking serious_.”

“I—”

“Shut up, I’m talking.” He’d never been quite this angry with her before, and Mirage was genuinely afraid. “Her power—let me quote this directly from her NSA file, which I’ve just been reading, by the way—is to ‘absorb and emit vapors.’ _Vapors_. Mirage.”

He stopped talking for a moment and stared at her, hard—evidently waiting for Mirage to explain herself—so she began to speak, trying her best to stay calm. “I thought that after all that business with Downburst, you would be pleased with an easy victory.”

“Pleased with an easy victory?” He spoke with dangerous calm, leaning against the wall next to the door and crossing one ankle over the other, a terrifyingly casual position. “Mirage. The goal of this operation is not to be pleased with easy victories. It’s to get the ’droid ready to fight Mr. Incredible. Don’t you remember that, sweetheart? At this point, if we waste our time battling small fry, we’ll never reach our goal. I don’t want to watch some pussy fourth-rate super with vapor powers get absolutely trashed by the Omnidroid within three seconds. That is not what I want. Not what I _fucking want_ , Mirage. And not what _you_ should want, either.”

Mirage swallowed. Not audibly. “I understand that, Syndrome.”

“Good, sweetheart. Now, tell me again. What superhero are you planning on targeting?”

A good thing for Mirage: she _had_ had a backup plan. “Hypershock,” she said immediately. “One of the most powerful supers. Seismic powers.”

“I’m familiar,” said Syndrome, who seemed to have relaxed at the sight of her total compliance. “Get him then, honey. And don’t let me down.”

It sounded very much like a warning.

When he left the room, Mirage sat in silence for a moment, simply feeling the weight of his absence. Yes, Syndrome was very unhappy with her indeed.

There were times Mirage wondered how she could earn Syndrome’s favor back, or discover what led to her losing it in the first place. And there were other times when she thought: why even try?

There were things she hated about this job. Syndrome, at times. The gory deaths she was forced to witness and take part in: the nightmares that kept her up at night. The way the lapsed Catholic in her wondered whether she would ever make it to heaven, now. Actually, the _rest_ of her wondered that, too.

But, also, there were things she loved.

Millions of them.

Syndrome had effectively made her one of the richest women on the planet. She now owned a rather large stake in his company, and the salary he afforded her was something many women would kill their own children for, never mind a bunch of strangers. When she left here, she could do as she wanted, live as she wanted, retire for the rest of her life in absolute peace and comfort.

But only if she was actually able to leave. And that would only happen if Syndrome allowed it. And for that, she would have to be in his good graces. Which, currently, she was not. If she left Syndrome’s employ now, he would likely not allow her to take anything she’d earned while in his employ (if he even let her escape at all). She might be able to flee, but penniless, forced to keep working for the rest of her life.

And she had _earned_ that damn money. She _wanted_ that damn money.

So the woman gritted her teeth, compressed her emotions, suppressed her gag reflex, and continued to work for Syndrome. And, being optimistic, perhaps the death of Hypershock would help lift her boss’s spirits.

She only had to ensure it to find out.

It was not difficult to find Hypershock. He had been the subject of more lawsuits than almost every other super, except the all-time record holder, Gamma Jack, and two others, Dynaguy and Mr. Incredible himself. With fifteen lawsuits on record, there had to be at least _one_ where the super was forced to disclose his secret identity. Mirage just had to find that one.

After spending a long time on the phone with frustratingly-dense bureaucrats, Mirage flew to California, Hypershock’s former home state (because god only knew if he still made his home there any longer). In the city of Municiberg, she once again searched the courthouse’s vast collection of dusty, ancient files in their dim and quiet basement, where the only noise was the distant hum of some sort of fan. She didn’t search for long before she found what she was looking for.

She found them filed under H, for Hypershock. In the yellow file folder, there were several long and unwieldy documents describing the proceedings of the lawsuit, but to Mirage’s eternal frustration, all mentions of Hypershock’s real name—of which there were tantalizingly few—were redacted. She traced her thumb over the small, blacked-out block on the sheet of paper, cursing it for hiding its secrets. Mirage could only ascertain that the name was rather short, but that info was all but useless.

There was one way she could get the information she needed more quickly: visit the NSA. The National Supers Agency still operated, if only in a much-reduced capacity compared to before, and they probably—no, _definitely_ —knew everything that Mirage needed to know. But she’d never dare to do so. It was only through _la divina providencia_ _de Dios_ that Mirage hadn’t yet been discovered and stopped by the NSA already.

In fact, she was growing suspicious of that fact. Syndrome had always insisted that the NSA would never notice that a few washed-up supers were missing; Mirage had always agreed to disagree, and had waited with fear to be proven right. But it seemed that this time, Syndrome was the one in the right, not her. Seven supers killed, and not a peep from the NSA. Perhaps the agency was too incompetent or underfunded to notice such things. Or maybe they simply did not care.

In any case, Mirage carefully replaced the files and left the building stealthily, so that no one knew she’d ever been there. She would have to use other avenues to complete her search.

Her first stop was Lisa’s All-Day Breakfast in the south end of Municiberg. The place had been a well-known and popular superhero hangout back in the day, and its patrons had included Hypershock, who had even been involved in a small-scale radio ad campaign for the diner. When Mirage pushed open the dirty double doors—hearing a small bell jingle at her entrance—and walked into the restaurant, she marveled at the fact that it was still open at all. The black-and-white checkered floor was dusty and dirty, the décor dingy and outdated, the sole waitress wearing a stained uniform and leaning against the counter with a cigarette between her lips and no life in her eyes. There were no customers. It looked miserable.

Still, Mirage hedged her bets.

The waitress glanced at her, exhaled a plume of gray smoke that wafted up towards the hideous fluorescent lights on the ceiling. “You don’t look like you’re here to order the fried eggs, sweetheart.”

Mirage internally bristled at being called _sweetheart_ by this dirty and uninviting-looking woman. She already got enough of that from Syndrome. Still, it was true: she _didn’t_ look like the kind of woman who would order breakfast in this greasy diner, with her hair immaculately styled in a silver bun, and wearing a gray pinstripe suit and designer high-heeled boots which, together, probably cost more than this waitress earned in two years.

“You’re correct,” she said, blandly charming. “I’m not here to order anything. I would just like to ask a few questions.”

The middle-aged waitress’s lined face immediately became closed-off, as if Mirage had said the wrong thing. “If you’re here about the lawsuit, it’s settled. I don’t wanna talk about it anymore.”

Her curiosity was instantly piqued. “No, ma’am, I’m not aware of that lawsuit. I’m here to ask you some questions about Hypershock.”

The woman’s expression did not change. “Oh. Huh.”

When she said nothing further, Mirage stepped a little closer and ventured, “Could you answer those questions for me?”

The waitress stared at her, dead brown eyes drilling into Mirage’s own. “I want nothing to do, no way, no how, with any superhero business. I don’t want that shit in my life. It’s over.”

Mirage’s stomach sank. Something had happened here, and whatever it was, this past event might bar her way to finding Hypershock. Still, she did not give up. She took another step closer towards the waitress and lowered her voice enticingly. “If it makes a difference, I can pay you for your time.”

Evidently, this did make a difference. The waitress’s eyes came, slightly but noticeably, back to life. “What kinda money are we talking about here?”

Wordlessly, Mirage reached into her suit pants pocket. She always kept a rather large amount of cash on her person, just in case of an emergency. She withdrew a wad of hundred-dollar American bills, and held them out towards the woman with a knowing but gentle smile.

There was no hesitation on the waitress’s part. “Well, shit. Let’s go.” With that, she started walking away, not looking back to see if Mirage would follow. Mirage, after a moment’s hesitation, did follow, trailing the waitress down a narrow and dark hallway that led past the diner’s kitchen and a few closed doors. At the end of the hallway, the waitress opened another door and ushered Mirage inside. They sat down on opposite sides of a stained wooden table in the dim back room, which stunk of cigarette smoke and coffee.

There, the waitress held out her hand. “Cash,” she said.

Mirage didn’t argue or try to bargain; she did not even count the amount of cash she handed over to the woman, which the waitress instantly and greedily stuffed into her apron pocket. With Mirage and Syndrome, money was no object, in any case. Most likely, she had just given the waitress tens of thousands. It did not matter. Any intel was worth much more.

And, to be frank, if the waitress’s information was less than satisfactory, Mirage could just simply… take the money back.

(The waitress’s information was _not_ less than satisfactory.)

“May I ask your name?” Mirage inquired, sipping on a tepid but surprisingly decent Styrofoam cup of coffee that her companion had offered her.

“’S Barbara,” the waitress said flatly.

“Barbara. Thank you for speaking with me.”

“Yeah. Thank _you_ for the cash. That was real nice of you, but it tells me you’re not quite on the level. Who are you, anyway?”

“I’m an independent agent,” she explained. “I work for a very wealthy benefactor who is interested in learning the location of the super known as Hypershock.” (None of this was untrue, but it was just vague enough for Mirage to feel comfortable saying it.)

“Huh.” The waitress nodded, her left hand pressed awkwardly against her face, and her eyes staring past Mirage at something only she could see. “Hypershock was one of the best of ’em,” she said, almost to herself. “He never bothered me too much. Not like that Gamma Jack bastard. Of course, he never did nothing to stop it, either.”

Intrigued, Mirage leaned forward. “What happened with Gamma Jack, if I may ask?”

“Long story,” said Barbara shortly.

“I’ve got time.”

“Long story that I don’t particularly want to tell,” Barbara said with more force behind her words.

“Then let me guess.” Mirage didn’t want to alienate her informant, but she couldn’t help pushing a little bit. “You were sexually harassed by Gamma Jack. You sued. You lost.”

Mirage had read many stories about the illustrious super known as Gamma Jack, and the long trail of lawsuits and accusations he’d left behind him. The man had no regard for women as anything other than objects, which was abundantly clear in every single news article and interview and video. Mirage guessed that Barbara must have been one of the numerous unidentified accusers whose names had been kept secret for their own safety.

To Mirage’s surprise, Barbara snorted and said, “Heh. I _won_ , actually. Fifty thousand dollars in damages. But he never paid up. I haven’t seen one single penny. And anyhow, it was fifteen years ago. Times have changed, I’ve moved on, it’s over.”

 _Not quite,_ Mirage thought with an invisible smirk. Though this woman might never find out about it, Gamma Jack would probably be paying quite dearly for his crimes, sooner rather than later.

“But you’re not here to talk about Gamma Jack,” said Barbara.

“No. I’m here to talk about Hypershock.”

“Huh. Well, like I said, he was one of the nicer ones. Never slapped my ass, never said anything rude, except maybe once or twice. What do you wanna know about him?”

“Anything you can tell me,” said Mirage with bright eyes. “Anything that could possibly lead me to his location today.”

Barbara shrugged her thin shoulders. “I dunno how I can help you there, lady. Supers are all underground, aren’t they? He isn’t Hypershock no more. And anyways, I never knew anything about his secret identity. He ate here sometimes. That’s all.”

“He ate here so often that he participated in an ad campaign. You served him almost every day. Surely there must be something,” Mirage urged, hoping to god that Barbara could at least give her a crumb.

Barbara suddenly brightened, and Mirage felt a glimmer of hope. “Y’know, there was one time…”

“Tell me.”

“It’s probably nothing. But one time, Gamma Jack was talking to Hypershock, and he called him Steve. I thought it was some kind of funny nickname. Hypershock got all pissy, said ‘Don’t call me that, for god’s sakes!’ Gamma Jack just laughed. But now that I think about it, maybe it wasn’t a nickname. Maybe it was his real name.”

This was undoubtedly helpful, and Mirage felt a pleasant, hopeful burn in her chest. However, she continued to push. “That helps, but can you think of anything more?”

“Um…” Barbara tapped her chin. As the waitress pondered, Mirage simply looked at her, considering her. Though she’d grown a little overweight and her face was now heavily-lined and sour, it wasn’t hard to see how beautiful she’d been when she was young: there were gorgeous cheekbones hiding under that flesh, lovely lips, nicely-shaped eyes, a fine face. Her brown hair was still thick and lustrous, too. Mirage imagined how much harassment poor Barbara must’ve endured as a young woman, and her heart genuinely went out to the waitress. She had endured the same experiences. Time and time again.

Supers were like cops: the great power they were afforded could go to their heads, and they could quite easily begin to think they were entitled to things they were not.

Finally, Barbara snapped her fingers. “Lady, you’re in luck. There’s one more thing I can tell you.”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t remember where or when I heard this, so don’t ask me. But one time, I overheard a conversation, and Hypershock said that he lived in the north end. Of Municiberg, I mean. He said something about the potholes around there being terrible or something, I dunno. Anyways, I think that’s all I can tell you.”

Mirage’s mood had considerably brightened, and she stood up, brushed herself off, and reached out towards Barbara with a hand. “That’s more than enough. Thank you so kindly for your time, Barbara.”

Barbara shook her hand heartily. “No trouble, ma’am. Anyways, I hope you know you changed my life today with all that money. Hopefully for the better.”

Heading for the door, Mirage turned back for the briefest moment, thinking about the harassment Barbara had endured.

“I hope so, too. Truly.”

Four hours later, after checking numerous records and interviewing citizens from the north end of Municiberg, she had a name. Steve Prescod-Schulman.

Her next prey.

Steve now lived in Bass, a suburb just outside of Municiberg; Mirage didn’t have to search long to find his name and address in a phone book, nor did she have to drive long to reach his small, shabby-looking apartment building. She made the elevator journey up to apartment 4-C, slipped her yellow package underneath his door, and left silently like a ghost in the night.

Forty-one minutes later, Mirage was sitting in her car just outside of the building when her phone rang. She picked it up immediately.

“Hello?”

The voice that answered was clearly drunken. “M-Mirage?”

She concealed her annoyance and disgust with expert precision. “Yes, this is she. I’m delighted to hear from you, Hypershock.”

“L-L-Likewise,” he slurred. “I’ve been wai—” The super hiccupped loudly. “—waiting for some action for almost fifteen goddamn years. I’m in. Don’t have to ask me twice.”

“Very good, Mr. Hypershock,” she purred. “That’s just what I hoped you’d say.”

Hypershock was an absolute delight.

The next morning, he showed up in a taxi at the private airport where Syndrome’s plane was located, thirty minutes late and clearly hungover. As the taxi pulled away, Hypershock approached Mirage, face contorted and reddened in anger and pain. He wore his superhero costume—an odd one, blue leather button-down shirt with white embellishments, white pants, black boots and a metal helmet—but he’d lost quite a bit of muscle mass and gained a lot of weight in the past decade-and-a-half, and the outfit was stretched on his frame. He’d grown old, too, his face scored with deep lines.

She kept herself neutral, offering him a cool smile. “It’s nice to see you this morning, Hypershock.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, “likewise.”

“Shall we board?”

Without speaking, he followed her up the stairs into the private jet. Not long afterwards, they were airborne.

And every second was miserable.

Just being around Hypershock was a stressful experience. He was clearly in agony, and he was angry and snappish too, responding to every question of Mirage’s with one-word barked answers that left her feeling attacked and defensive. _It’s your damn fault for drinking yourself half to death_ , she wanted to scream at him, but she restrained herself beautifully, maintaining her cool exterior flawlessly. It did take quite a bit of effort, but she’d spent her entire life making an effort to be perfect around deplorable men, and she wasn’t about to stop now.

They were sitting on either side of the glowing blue grid, and Mirage thought, with some smug irony, about how so many other superheroes had sat exactly where Hypershock was now sitting, and were dead.

“So, just shut it down quickly and don’t destroy the thing?” her companion inquired, scowling in pain.

“That’s exactly right, Hypershock.” 

“And I get paid three times my annual salary, right?”

“That’s correct.”

“Fine. I’ll do it. On one condition.”

Mirage almost laughed aloud at the absurdity of Hypershock saying “I’ll do it”—as if, at this point, he had any choice. She kept a straight face. “Name your condition.”

“You get me the hell out of there as soon as I’m done. Right back home. No fucking around. I’m feeling like shit today and I just want to go back to bed.”

She regarded the super with cool, utter contempt; she wasn’t even sure she could keep it hidden anymore. “That should be possible, but I’d like to inform you that there is a five-star hotel on the island, should you feel like resting before you leave.”

“No,” he snapped, clutching his head with a gloved hand. “I wanna get out of here. That’s all. I want the money and I want to go home.” He abruptly changed subjects. “You got any wine around here?”

 _God, no_. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible at the moment, Hypershock. We’d prefer you to be as sharp as possible during your fight with the Omnidroid. That precludes drinking, I’m sorry to say. Later tonight, I can offer you complimentary drinks on your flight home.”

He grunted in response, a harsh pig-like noise.

Perhaps Mirage was simply hardened, embittered, growing less human after witnessing seven deaths that she herself had caused, but she found herself hoping that Hypershock would not survive ’til evening.

“He’s a bastard.”

“ _Damn_. You’re never so direct. What gives?”

“A two-hour plane ride with him. That’s what gives.”

“What is it about him, exactly, sweetheart? I’m curious. Wait, don’t tell me—he’s still an alcoholic?”

“Very much so. And rude, temperamental, short—everything I can’t stand.”

“So. You lookin’ forward to this?”

“I won’t say I am. And I won’t say I’m _not_.”

“Damn. You must hate the guy.”

“Mmm. I just want today to be over, to be perfectly honest.”

“Well, don’t worry, sweetheart—soon you’ll get your wish. I doubt this drunken idiot can defeat my robot. Look at him stumbling around in the woods like that. Trippin’ over his own feet. Pathetic. Heh.”

“…you might be wrong.”

“Uh-oh. I might be. Look at that. Oh! _Damn!_ ”

“…”

“Damn! Mirage, you seeing this? Holy shit! This is Downburst all over again! He flew—is he _flying?_ Shit! Oh, shit!”

Within minutes it was over. Hypershock had used his seismic powers to slam his fists on the ground, creating an earthquake that rumbled under the Omnidroid’s feet and caused the robot to lose its balance, slamming hard into the ground. Then, Hypershock utilized the jetpack strapped to his back, part of his costume, to soar into the air and evade the Omnidroid’s flailing claws. Again and again, he repeated this process, and it took only a few minutes before the Omnidroid was damaged beyond repair. The egg-shaped robot kept losing its balance, over and over again.

“It’s too top-heavy,” Syndrome muttered to himself, hand clasping his chin in deep thought as he observed the scene playing out on the screen in front of them. “That’s the problem here. I need to return to a more spherical design. Huh, Mirage?”

“I agree,” she said mechanically, watching Hypershock on the screen. True to form, once the flying super realized the Omnidroid was no longer moving, he descended towards the ground and immediately started clutching his head once he landed. “Get me the hell out of here and get me home!” he thundered to no one in particular.

Mirage exhaled in irritation.

Syndrome, smiling widely, said, “Ya see, Mirage? This is what I wanted. This is why I wanted a super of higher caliber than fuckin’ Stormicide. Because this? Is actually fucking _interesting_.” He gestured widely with his arms, pacing excitedly as he spoke the words. “Now I can improve the ’droid based on this data. Maybe a few supers from now, we can go after Stormicide or someone weak, but for now I wanna keep targeting the big guys. You get it?” 

Mirage nodded—she would not make this mistake again—before producing her walkie-talkie and pressing the button. “Could a unit please head to the northwest sector of the island and retrieve Mr. Hypershock. Bring him to the hotel. Another unit, please ready the plane for departure.”

“No,” said Syndrome suddenly, and Mirage looked up at him, surprised.

“What?”

“No. He’s not leaving yet.”

“Syndrome,” she said delicately, “I think it’ll anger him greatly if we force him to stay any longer.”

“Hear me out,” said her boss. “I want some extra time to design the ’droid’s successor. Like, maybe a few weeks, maybe a month. So, in the meantime, we can’t keep him here. We gotta let him go.”

She stared at him quizzically. “And?”

“And, when I’m done with my design, I wanna try it out on Hypershock again. And for that, he needs to come back here to the island. And I want him to have _incentive_ to come back. If you feel me.”

She did feel him, and she regarded her boss with total clarity. “Isn’t the money incentive enough?”

“I could be wrong, but I’m not reading him that way. I think this guy seems reluctant to work with us again. That’s just my personal read on him. So fuck him,” Syndrome said bluntly, grinning at her with that wide, too-toothy mouth of his. “Then he’ll come back. Guaranteed.”

She wanted so much to slap that grin off his face, but she resisted the urge to fury. After all, she had expected this would happen at some point. Expected that Syndrome would force her to use her beauty for untoward purposes.

And, after all, it wasn’t as though she hadn’t done it before.

And, if fucking Hypershock meant she could claw her way back into Syndrome’s good graces, well. So be it. She could see it in his eyes: this was how she would prove herself. This was how he wanted her to show him her loyalty. How far she’d go for the cause.

Not for the cause, but for the money and for her life, she would go very, very far indeed.


	11. XI: Interlude II

Mirage did not want to sleep with Hypershock.

But then again, there were many, many things in her life and career that Mirage had not wanted to do. And she had done them anyway.

There were people she hadn’t wanted to kill. There were things about herself she hadn’t wanted to change—her hair, her name, her soul. There were manipulations she hadn’t wanted to perform. And, yes, there had been people she hadn’t wanted to sleep with, too. But she had done it. And she would do it again tonight.

To prove her loyalty to Syndrome, to secure her position, she would go very far indeed.

Hypershock was grouchy and badly-tempered and always whining after a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, and he was no great looker, either. They ate dinner together, accompanied by the wall of smooth descending lava, and Mirage regarded her guest as he silently sawed at his steak. Dressed now in a tuxedo that Mirage had provided, he wasn’t much of a looker: middle-aged, probably fifteen years her senior, with graying hair and small facial features accentuated by a chin that was far too large for his face. He was not handsome. And he was not happy that she’d made him wait.

“I want to go home,” he grumbled more than once, and when Mirage attempted to steer the discussion into more sexual territories, Steve Prescod-Schulman always steered it right back. He wasn’t making it easy for her to seduce him, and it was beginning to frustrate her. Why, she’d worn her most gorgeous silver dress, one that draped like thousands of tiny tassels across her slim frame, one that dipped far below her neck to reveal most of her chest and stomach, and she’d provided the most luxurious of meals, steak cooked to perfection, heirloom vegetables simmered in salt and garlic and olive oil, all grown right here on the island in its fertile volcanic soil, the most delicious food you’d ever be likely to taste. And still, he grumbled and barely looked at her. What more was a girl to do?

He sipped at his Sauvignon Blanc, but didn’t appear to be getting much drunker, which was something of a relief. Then, he snapped at Mirage to get him something stronger, and she knew that subtlety wasn’t going to work with this pig of a man. So the frustrated woman went over and sat right on his lap, pushing the chair slightly away from the table in the process, and said, “This strong enough for you?”

He got the point, and he took to it much easier than Mirage would’ve expected. Not five minutes later and he was on top of her in a nearby bedroom, the lights off, so dark that she could barely see anything but the outline of his face. He was direct, straight-to-business, and he wanted to be the one in control. Mirage had read that from the get-go, and she allowed him to do what he wanted. Allowed him to crawl between her legs, and slither that thing inside her, and start pumping like he was trying to hammer a nail with his cock or something. For god’s sake, her dress wasn’t even off, just hiked up. It was uncomfortable and graceless, and Mirage almost wished he was Syndrome instead. Syndrome was not the most attractive man she’d met by any means, but at least there was _communication_ with him.

She felt disgusted with herself on several levels, and disgusted with the man on top of her too, and with Syndrome, and she closed her eyes and gritted her teeth and waited for it to be over.

Then she heard him say, “I can’t—”

“What’s wrong?” she managed to gasp, because he was all but crushing her small frame with his weight, his cold flesh pressed against every inch of her, and it was enough of a struggle to simply _breathe_.

Then he slapped her full across the face.

Mirage blinked, stunned for a moment. The thrusting grew harder and he slapped her again a few moments later, her head snapped to the side from the force of the blow, her cheek stinging. This time, she emitted a small gasp of pain.

If he’d been anyone else, if this had been a consensual situation, she would have killed him on the spot. He would have been instantly dead. But he was Hypershock, and this was her job, and he would be dead soon enough, anyway. So she gritted her teeth hard, and pretended to moan, and when he slapped her a third time, it was enough for him to get off, squealing like the pig he was.

Well. She’d had better.

The next day, Hypershock was sent home on one of Syndrome’s automated private jets. He gave Mirage a certain look as he stepped into the plane. She wouldn’t have quite characterized it as _longing_ —it was something else, something dirtier and more primal and disgusting, but definitely in the same category. She gave him a small wave in return, a knowing smirk.

She didn’t see Syndrome for two days.

He remained in his workshop, day and night, having his meals delivered by the guards, not emerging. Mirage knew that his workshop had amenities—a washroom, a kitchen, a cot—so he would be comfortable in there. Nonetheless, she grew more and more offended by his silence. She had made a sacrifice for him, and he couldn’t so much as emerge to thank her? To acknowledge her? To quell her worries about falling out of his favor? _Anything_?

On the third day, she had had enough. Though Syndrome had given express orders to never enter his workroom without permission, she ignored them and went to that end of the island complex, stalking down the hallway and throwing open the door.

The huge metal room was devoid of people, except for Syndrome, who sat at a wooden desk against the far wall, only a dim lamp lighting his way as he busily scribbled some blueprints. He didn’t hear her enter—didn’t even notice her presence until she stomped across the room to plant herself right beside him. She didn’t want to be _too_ angry and aggressive—after all, she was still quite unsure of her position with him. But she was angry. She was annoyed. She did want answers.

He wasn’t dressed in his black-and-white uniform—a rarity for him. More casual, he had adorned himself with jeans and a simple black T-shirt. He glanced up at her, then back down at his work. “Mirage. I thought I said something about never coming in here without my say-so.”

He didn’t seem angry with her, though—he was too distracted with his work. So she decided to slightly test him. “I slept with Hypershock.”

He shrugged distractedly. “Good work. Nice.”

“ _Good work, nice_?” she parroted. Despite herself, she could not stop her anger from bleeding through. “I fucked that pig on _your_ orders. Some genuine gratitude would be well-appreciated.”

This time, when Syndrome looked up, he _really_ looked at her. “Damn. What do you want me to say, Mirage? Thanks. That’s pretty much all I _can_ say.”

“It was a sacrifice,” she said quite flatly.

“We all have to make sacrifices sometimes, sweetheart.”

She was so filled with fury that she could only blink at him for a moment, her amber eyes all but glowing, catlike, in the dimness.

He seemed to notice her anger. Something in him shifted.

“Mirage,” he said slowly, “I appreciate that it wasn’t easy for you. He was a gross guy. It must’ve been pretty fucking nasty.”

“I can still smell the stench of alcohol on his breath,” she said, her voice tight, her arms crossed even tighter.

“But, sweetheart—you’ve done this before, right? And you’ve always gotta remember. Just because you fucked him doesn’t mean you’re his.” He reached up, put a hand on her bare upper arm. “It doesn’t matter in the end. It’s just a job. It’s just a means to a goal. You feel me?”

“I want to know something,” she said.

“What, sweetheart?”

“Do you trust me?”

He frowned. “Huh?”

“In the past few weeks—months, even—I’ve started to get the sense that you do not trust me. You’ve pulled away from me. Now, I do this thing—I do it _for you_ —and you don’t even acknowledge it. Syndrome, I’ve proved that I’m loyal. So many times, I’ve proved it. I _deserve_ your trust.”

He simply looked at her. Didn’t say anything. She couldn’t read his face, and that terrified her. Perhaps she had gotten too emotional. Perhaps— _Dios no lo permita_ —she had developed feelings for him, complex feelings but feelings nonetheless, and those feelings were bleeding through in a way that even Mirage could not control.

And perhaps she was just afraid of him. That, too, was a feeling.

The man regarded her with a strange expression—no, the boy, because the expression was oddly boylike. He said, “I mean, you’re right…” and trailed off.

Perhaps she was growing too emotional, but she could not hold it back. “I’ve given it all to this cause. I feel as if I was raped. At your command, for you. And you don’t care.”

She sounded like a petulant child, and even she hated the words emerging from her mouth. But for some reason she could not keep them restrained.

Though to Mirage it felt like a thousand years, Syndrome’s silence probably only lasted a few seconds.

Then, he shrugged. “You’re wrong and you’re right, Mirage. I don’t care.”

She let out a breath she’d been holding.

“I don’t care,” he repeated, “because in the end, it’s not worth caring about. Not compared to the main plan, anyway. If you have to use your body a couple’a times to get them satisfied, to keep the wheels rolling, then why do I care? For that matter, hell, why do _you_ care? It lasts a few minutes, maybe an hour, then it’s over, and they’re dead, and you don’t have to think about it anymore, sweetheart. And in the end, the reward is worth everything.”

Mirage had known, somehow, that this would be his answer. She knew him that well by now. Mirage opened her mouth to give a curt response, but Syndrome lifted a hand.

“I’m not done yet.”

She shut her mouth, a little indignantly.

And now, again, something in his face had shifted, and there was something in his expression that even she, a seasoned professional, failed to recognize.

“I said you were wrong _and_ you were right, Mirage. And you’re wrong because on another level, I do care. I care a lot, sweetheart.”

“Really?” she said without inflection.

“Yeah. Because you’re mine.” There was a ferocious quality to the burn in those icy eyes, a duality that made Mirage suddenly afraid again. “You belong to me. I don’t fucking want them to touch you, but I’ll let ’em do it for the sake of the plan, but I swear to god, Mirage, it does make me fucking _livid_. I’m just good at hiding it. And yeah, sending you to fuck Hypershock was a test, Mirage. You passed. But it was a test on _me_ , too. I wanted to see how jealous I’d be, hell, if I’d be jealous at all. And, sweetheart, I was pretty. Fucking. _Jealous_.”

Mirage blinked down at her employer, a strange blend of anger and attraction beginning to form within her. She was not Syndrome’s, she belonged to no one. But there was something undeniably provocative about him _believing_ she was. About the idea of her allowing herself to be _someone’s_ , for once in her life.

No. That was a stupid thought. She’d been possessed before.

She wasn’t going to backtalk him now, though. This was what she had wanted. There was absolutely no doubt in his eyes, and she knew he trusted her, knew that her seduction of Hypershock had proven her loyalties, somehow. Perhaps by igniting her employer’s envy.

This was what she had _wanted_.

Abruptly he stood up, pushing his chair away from him; its rolling wheels clattered on the concrete floor. And then she was being pushed against the nearby wall, and her wrists were pinned above her head, and his entire body was pressed flush against her own, and she felt he was really, really fucking hard. And a tongue was shoved down her throat, and Mirage quickly realized she was being _claimed_.

Well. Good.

The kiss was sloppy, and hot, and possessive on both sides, as Mirage quickly stopped being the prey and became the hunter again, only this time, he would not allow her. When she tried to free her wrists from his grip, he just held them tighter, and pushed a thigh hard between her own, and hissed in her ear, “This is about _you_ this time, sweetheart.”

This time, Mirage allowed herself to be compliant, as she had done with Hypershock. This time, she was not in control, not even a semblance of it. But this time, it wasn’t staged, wasn’t faked. Every part of it was real. Them fucking on the cold floor was real, Mirage’s head banging against the concrete was real, the fact that she didn’t even care was real, Syndrome’s heavy weight between her legs and across her stomach was real, and it was good. It wasn’t perfect, but yes, there was something about it that was _good_.

Maybe it was the fact that she now knew—or, at least, suspected and hoped—that she was _not_ out of favor with him, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> You might recognize this story from several months ago. I deleted it after receiving negative feedback, but I have since decided to repost this story with a few minor edits. This story has become personal to me. I identify with the character of Mirage. I am therefore asking the people who hate this story to please not comment with your criticism. Constructive, fair criticism ONLY, please.


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